


A Note Unsaid

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Actor!Enjolras, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Artist!Grantaire, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Drug Use, Emotional Rollercoaster, I will undoubtedly add more, It's hard to say which I'm worse at tags or writing summaries, M/M, More like a musical fic ish?, Multi, Musicals, Not really a songfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 80,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a famous actor and Grantaire a starving artist with a dark past. Things should not work between them, and yet they do. What happens when things start to fall apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - "Without You"

**Author's Note:**

> Aargh where do I even begin with this monster? I guess I will say that parts of the concept were not developed for this and were written months ago now; I had meant to use them for non-fanfiction purposes, until my friend told me that the way I was writing the main character sounded suspiciously like Aaron Tveit (sorry that my Tveit feels creep in everywhere). Anyway, I dislike writing about real people but also really liked where it was going, so I figured with a little tweaking, I could turn it into an E/R fic.
> 
> Heh. Little tweaking. How wrong I was.
> 
> Anyway, this is vaguely set up as a musical in terms of sheer structure (I call each chapter scene instead of chapter and there is a corresponding musical number associated with each), but it's written in prose form, not script form. Unless otherwise noted, the musical numbers quoted at the beginning of each scene refer only to the quoted lyrics and do not reflect the entire song or the musical from whence they came.
> 
> This starts off tragic, will probably get unspeakably fluffy for a bit, and then goes downhill from there. You will probably all hate me by the end. Consider yourselves warned.
> 
> A couple head canon notes - the Les Amis referred to by their surnames in the Brick/movie have their surnames as given names in this. I appear to suck at writing anyone outside of Enjolras, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Jehan and Combeferre, so don't expect to see too much of everyone else. Finally, after the glory that was Aaronjolras at the Academy Awards this year, I've repurposed some vague Aaron Tveit characteristics for Enjolras that seemed appropriate.
> 
> Fic title is from a Langston Hughes poem: "Let life be like music/and death a note unsaid."
> 
> The first chapter (i.e. prologue) takes place in the future, with the rest leading up to that point. Enjolras will undoubtedly seem OOC in this scene but will hopefully make sense once we jump back to the past. Prologue is also pretty short but I will get the first actual chapter up as soon as I can.
> 
> I will add more if needed, but for now, my usual disclaimer is that I own none of the source material and all of the typos.

Prologue – “Without You” – _Rent_

 

“It was the love story that captured a nation – then-24-year-old nobody Grantaire Durand meeting, dating and marrying Broadway star Enjolras Moreau, who skyrocketed to fame after starring in the movie ‘Wicked’. Now, that love story has had a tragic ending. Grantaire Moreau was found dead on Monday in the house he shared with his husband of an apparent and seemingly accidental drug overdose. Today, we’re here for the public memorial service for a man who grew from being simply an artist into a national – and sometimes controversial – figure.”

The day dawned with a clear blue sky, the kind that seemed to go on for miles. It was on the cool side – mid-60s – for L.A., but with the sun, it did not seem nearly as cold. Crowds had already gathered for the memorial service, the public venue for grief to be put on display. Celebrities had walked past the paparazzi, not stopping to officially pose – that would border on tacky, after all, given the event – but pausing long enough for their mourning to be captured on film for all to see.

The fact that it was a public service struck some as odd, but it was hardly the strangest thing to happen in the course of the Moreaus’ bizarre romance. Still, for a couple notoriously quiet on the subject of their relationship, for Enjolras Moreau to be airing his grief so publicly did cause some to wonder.

He was already seated on the stage at the head of the multitude of chairs that spilled over the lawn. Though his face was drawn and weary, his color too pale, with several days’ worth of stubble darkening his cheeks, he still drew lingering stares from the women and many men in the audience, young and old alike. Even on this day of all days, he looked almost too perfect, in a sharp black three-piece suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. His curly blond hair was ever-so-casually tussled in a way that seemed to make women melt from wanting to run their hands through it. Yes, after everything, Enjolras Moreau was still certifiably one of the most attractive men in the business, and though no one would be crass enough to say it out loud on today of all days, his husband’s death had put him back into the “most eligible bachelor” category.

And such an odd husband he had been. He had not been a model or an actor. No one famous, he didn’t come from money, and above all else, he looked just plain average. Raven-black hair with wide blue eyes, a little too pale and a little too thin. Not really much going for him in the muscle-department. Passing him on the street would not have elicited a second glance for the most part, but pairing him with Enjolras Moreau was what had evoked controversy.

Of course, there was also the fact that their runaway romance had leapt from initial sparks to marriage over the course of only a few months. More than a few people whispered the words “gold digger”, but their marriage had nonetheless gone through, and for a bit, it seemed that they might be resigned to normal couplehood. That changed, of course, following Grantaire’s overdoses and very public breakdowns which landed him in rehab and even the psych ward.

Rumor had it that his death was attributed to another overdose, a rumor as yet unsubstantiated by the coroner’s office, not that this stopped anyone from confirming that it had been coke, or heroin, or speed that had finally done him in. At least a quarter of the audience was only attending in hopes of gleaning more information about the circumstances surrounding his death (and about as many more were only there to try and catch the eye of his newly-single leading man).

But even with the rumor mill churning, eventually everyone filed in and took their seats. Throughout the entire process, Enjolras sat on stage, head bowed, looking at no one. His agent, manager, and the other members of Les Amis Production Company were seated in the front row of the audience, and all were taking turns giving Enjolras concerned glances, though none seemed willing to approach him. Even when everyone had finally taken his seat, when the pastor began the memorial service, still he did not look up. It was not until Grantaire’s full name was read out loud in the opening prayer that Enjolras’s eyes met the crowd.

His manager and best friend, Combeferre, knew Enjolras best, but even he was at a loss for words when he saw the look in Enjolras’s eyes. It was a pain that went beyond grief, that went beyond any human comprehension. It was a look of absolute, earth-shattering loss. Grantaire had constantly teased Enjolras by calling him Apollo, but in this moment, Enjolras was Achilles after the death of Patroclus.

After the standard opening words and prayers, an invocation by the pastor that thoroughly indicated that he had never met Grantaire – for who in his right mind would have described Grantaire as a “gentle soul”? Grantaire was a hurricane, a tornado, a force of nature bent on wreaking havoc, even if only to return to try and mend the damage –  it was Enjolras’s turn. He stood and walked to the podium, ignoring the sudden flurry of whispers and rapid clicks and flashes of cameras. He took a long moment to brace himself, then looked into the crowd. “I was going to sing something today, for…for him,” he said, his voice soft yet rough. “But when I tried to find the right song – it just…it…it wouldn’t come.” Taking a shaky breath, he looked down at the podium. “Instead, I thought I would read part of a poem. It’s from one of…of his favorite movies, or at least, one his favorite movies to mock, _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. It’s by W.H. Auden.”

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out on the podium.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.  
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;  
For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

His voice had gained in volume and intensity as he had read the poem, but when he got to the last line, his voice cracked and he barely finished. The silence was absolute, so much so that even those in the back rows could hear the strangled sob that shook his shoulders. He clenched the podium with both hands as if it were the only thing keeping him standing upright, and after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke again. “There’s so much that I could say, so much that I want to say. But I don’t want to say it to you. I want to say it to him. And that’s the fucking unbearable part – that I can’t. That he’s—” He broke off, unwilling or unable to force the word “dead” past his lips. Another sob, and then, “He was my everything. He was my center, the only thing that kept me going. Without him…how can I do anything? How can I live? How can I work? What’s even the fucking point?”

“When you love someone the way I loved…the way I love him, how can that just end? How can you move from that? How can I go back to doing anything that I used to do, knowing that he’s not going to be there? How…how...”

He was fully weeping by this point, and was not alone. Many in the audience were moved by his words and the obvious emotion behind them. After another long pause, he looked up again, no longer crying. His voice was the steadiest it had been that entire day as he said, “I found the song I want to sing him.” He paused again, fumbling with something under the podium that the audience couldn’t see.

Then, looking for the first time at the framed portrait on the stage, he sang, half-under his breath, half into the microphone,

“Without you, the eyes gaze,  
The legs walk  
The lungs breathe  
The mind churns  
The heart yearns  
The tears dry, without you  
Life goes on, but I’m gone  
‘Cause I die, without you.”

He let the note linger poignantly on, then calmly raised the gun from under the podium, placed the muzzle against his temple, and pulled the trigger.


	2. Act I, Scene 1 - "Lonely Town"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, we've now gone back in time to the start, so this chapter takes place an unspecified amount of time before the prologue (unspecified because I haven't quite worked out the timeline yet).
> 
> Usual disclaimer: though I love to write them, that doesn't mean I own them. Unlike the typos, which I hate to write but own in perpetuity.

Act I, Scene 1 – “Lonely Town” – _On the Town_

 

“ _A town’s a lonely town,  
_ _When you pass through  
_ _And there is no one waiting there for you,  
_ _Then it’s a lonely town.  
_ _You wander up and down,  
_ _The crowds rush by,  
_ _A million faces pass before your eye  
_ _Still it’s a lonely town.  
_ _Unless there’s love,  
_ _A love that’s shining like a harbor light.  
_ _You’re lost in the night;  
_ _Unless there’s love,  
_ _The world’s an empty place  
_ _And every town’s a lonely town._ ”

 

Grantaire Durand lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling of his studio apartment. His room was more of a wreck than usual, which was saying something, since the word ‘tidy’ was never really ascribed to the man. Paint blotches dotted much of the hardwood floor and furniture and a stack of canvases in varying degrees of completion teetered haphazardly in one corner, far outnumbered by the various alcohol and wine bottles scattered throughout the room, also in varying degrees of completion.

A lone canvas was propped on the easel, a basic outline of an angelically handsome face staring out from it, but Grantaire was purposefully avoiding the gaze of the painted man. His intercom buzzed, and Grantaire groaned aloud. That would be the different, but actually real man that he was trying to avoid as well.

After ignoring the buzzing for five minutes, Grantaire’s phone rang. Picking it up without looking at it, he said, “Go away.”

“R, let me in.” Grantaire could practically hear the pout in the other man’s voice.

Grantaire groaned again. “I would really rather you just left me alone, Jehan.”

The other man, Jehan, clucked sympathetically. “And you know I would give anything to not have to annoy you like this, but if wishes were fishes…”

Groaning even louder, Grantaire rolled off his bed and slumped over to the intercom to buzz Jehan in. “If wishes were fishes?” he said into the phone. “I thought you were supposed to be a poet. You really couldn’t come up with anything better?”

Jehan flounced into Grantaire’s apartment, scowling at the dark-haired man as he hung up on his cellphone and shoved it into the back pocket of his floral-print skinny jeans. “‘Enquirer, cease, petitions yet remain; Which Heav’n may hear, nor deem religious vain/Still raise for good the supplicating voice; But leave to Heav’n the measure and the choice.’ Samuel Johnson, _The Vanity of Human Wishes_.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Grantaire, flopping back down on his bed.

Scowling even deeper, Jehan snapped, “That’s why I said, ‘If wishes were fishes’.” Glancing around the room, his scowl was replaced by a look of concern. “Have you been taking your meds?” he asked carefully. Grantaire rolled his eyes but did not answer. “I’ll take that as a no.” With a sigh, Jehan crossed to the medicine cabinet with an ease that suggested he had done this many times before. “You have to keep taking your medicine,” Jehan chided. “You know what the doctor said. You know what happened last time—”

“I remember just fine what happened last time,” snapped Grantaire. “I was fucking there.” Jehan’s hand froze on the medicine door cabinet, and his shoulders slumped. Grantaire looked over and winced. He knew by the tell-tale sign of Jehan’s shaking shoulders that the other man was trying not to cry. “Hey, stop,” he said awkwardly, sitting up. “I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

Jehan took a deep breath but did not turn around to look at Grantaire. “You may have been there,” he said in a quiet voice, “but you don’t know what it was like…what it was like for me. You almost _died_ , R.”

Grantaire looked down at the floor. “I know.”

Straightening up, Jehan turned around, a carefully mild look on his face. “Then be a good boy and do what the doctor ordered, alright?”

“Ok,” said Grantaire in a small voice, holding his hand out obediently. Jehan placed that day’s pills into Grantaire’s hand, and Grantaire popped the entire handful into his mouth. He didn’t even bother checking to see what they were; he knew all the names in his head. _Lithium, valproate, carbamazepine, aripiprazole, benzodiazepine_ …The list went on and on. Still, he dry-swallowed the pills without further complaint, and lay back across the bed. “Thanks.”

Jehan ignored him, instead crossing over to the canvas on the easel. “This is incredible, Grantaire,” he breathed. “It looks just like him.”

Grantaire gritted his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Snorting incredulously, Jehan turned around and raised an eyebrow at him. “Please. I’ve known you for long enough to know when you’re full of bullshit.”

It was true. Jehan and Grantaire had met on the first day of university – well, on Jehan’s first day of university. Jehan had started a semester late at Columbia in the creative writing program, and Grantaire had moved to New York after dropping out of RISD after one semester. They had met in a shitty little coffee shop when Jehan had accidentally grabbed Grantaire’s coffee cup instead of his own and promptly spit it all over Grantaire, having expected the taste of coffee and not whiskey, especially not at 9 in the morning. Despite all that, they had become almost instant friends, becoming roommates at the end of that semester and living together all through Jehan’s schooling (even after Grantaire’s… _incident_ junior year). After Jehan graduated, he moved to be closer to work, and Grantaire had moved to a studio that he could marginally afford on his own, but the two had remained close friends (admittedly, Jehan was Grantaire’s only real friend, as Grantaire tended to alienate everyone he met with his sullen fits and unpredictable moods). But for the past two years, Jehan had gone out of his way to be the calming presence in these stormy moods, trekking all the way across New York as often as he could to ensure that Grantaire took his meds and occasionally sold a piece of art to be able to afford to keep paying rent.

“Seriously, though,” Jehan continued. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Grantaire continued to feign ignorance. “I really have no clue who you’re talking about.”

Jehan sat next to Grantaire on the bed, digging one of his elbows into Grantaire’s ribs. “C’mon, R, I’m not an idiot. That’s _Enjolras_.” Grantaire closed his eyes but did not deny it, and Jehan let out a laugh that could really only be described as a cackle. “Ha! I knew you were paying attention when I dragged you to see _Wicked_.”

Grantaire glared at him and looked fleetingly at the painting before looking away again, a blush rising in his face. He didn’t want to admit it. It was so stupid, so juvenile. 24-year-olds didn’t have massive, irrational crushes on movie stars. That was for teeny-boppers and high schoolers. But he couldn’t stop a small sigh from escaping his lips as he thought about the gorgeous blond man that had starred as Fiyero in _Wicked_. Enjolras Moreau was the perfect male specimen, a true triple threat: singer, actor, dancer. And, of course, literally the hottest guy Grantaire had ever laid eyes on.

Grantaire had wanted to hate the movie; it was a stupid musical, for Christ’s sake, not exactly Grantaire’s style, but from the moment Enjolras as Fiyero had appeared on the screen, Grantaire had been completely unable to look away, a fact that he had tried to hide from Jehan (along with the fact that Grantaire had gone to see the show three more times since then, plus had kept himself up at night watching interviews and video clips of Enjolras on YouTube, and bootlegged versions of Broadway shows that he had been in, plus every guest star role he had ever had on a TV series, and yes, ok, Grantaire had also illegally downloaded every original Broadway cast recording that Enjolras sang on, and had actually legally purchased the Wicked Soundtrack – never mind the fact that it was the first legally purchased album Grantaire had gotten in years) but none of this really mattered. Not now that Jehan knew his little secret (though thankfully Jehan still didn’t know about the half dozen other canvases featuring the blond god, or the sketchbooks full of pictures).

Grantaire rolled over and sighed. “He’s like…I dunno, my muse or some shit,” he muttered, still blushing.

Jehan glanced around the cramped apartment. “Well, you have started painting again, which is always a good thing. And I’m not judging you, R. The guy  _is_  gorgeous. And you paint him really well.”

“He’s fucking Apollo,” sighed Grantaire, hoping his voice didn’t sound too swoon-y. “I mean, Jesus, with bone structure like that I could paint him for hours on end.”

Jehan laughed and reclined on the bed. “When, who—who did dare/To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow/And grin and look proudly/And blaspheme so loudly/And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?/ O Delphic Apollo!’ John Keats – Hymn to Apollo.” Suddenly Jehan sat upright. “Oh, shit, that reminds me.” He stood and hurried over to Grantaire’s battered clock-radio.

Grantaire struggled upright into a sitting position. “What are you doing?” he asked, curious.

“I heard on the radio on my way over that Enjolras Moreau is doing a radio interview this afternoon to discuss his new Broadway show,” said Jehan, fiddling with Grantaire’s radio.

Grantaire groaned and buried his face in his pillow. “Jehan, we are not seriously going to sit here and listen to some damn radio interview like it’s 1999 and we’re mooning over the goddamn Backstreet Boys, are we?”

“I never mooned over the Backstreet Boys; I was into NSYNC,” said Jehan off-handedly, purposefully avoiding answering Grantaire’s question. “There!” he said, having finally found the correct station.

“…tell us about your new show,” the radio host’s voice said, and Grantaire could not help but suck in a quick breath when Enjolras started talking

Jehan ignored what was being said on the radio, far preferring to watch Grantaire’s reaction as he listened. The dark-haired man was enraptured, staring at the radio as if it might suddenly produce the voice emitting from it in person, a small smile subconsciously lifting his face. Jehan could not stop himself from chucking out loud. “You’ve got it baaad,” he giggled, purposely not moving fast enough when Grantaire hit him with his pillow.

* * *

 

“We’ll be back in a moment with more from Enjolras Moreau, star of the hit movie adaptation of _Wicked_.” The radio DJ leaned back from the microphone and gave Enjolras a smile. “You’re doing really well.”

Enjolras managed a tired smile before swiveling around in his chair to look at his manager, Combeferre, and his agent, Courfeyrac, both of whom were in the sound booth. Courfeyrac was, as per always, on his cell phone, but he managed a distracted wave while Combeferre gave him a reassuring smile and thumbs-up.

They had stayed on neutral territory during the first half of the interview: discussing _Wicked_ , talking about his new show, etc., but the next part of the interview was going to be the more off-the-cuff, personal side of things. This was the part of interviews that Enjolras hated. He knew it came with the territory, but even after all this time he could not help but clam up and get uncomfortable with the line of questions that would inevitably follow. It didn’t help that he had nothing to report on his private life. He couldn’t even remember the last time he got laid.

Enjolras wasn’t conceited, he was honest, and he knew there were millions of people who would give anything in his position, and he would have be blind not to see how men and women alike looked at him. Which somehow made it all the lonelier that he couldn’t find someone to be with, not long term. He had done his fair share of dating around – Courfeyrac in particular had insisted that it was good for his “image”, whatever that meant – but none of them lasted longer than a month or two at most, partially due to his demanding work schedule, partially because he lost interest, and partially because, in truth, he was a boring individual to be with. His passion in life was his career, and it showed; whenever he took on a new acting role, he made it his life, and inspired people to come see him, whether on a TV show, in a film, or on stage. This meant that he lived, breathed, ate and drank his career. He wouldn’t go out too late to ensure he got the right amount of sleep, he ate healthy, he didn’t really drink alcohol, he never did drugs, and he definitely didn’t sleep around. In other words, for a quasi-celebrity or, really, for a normal human being, he was just plain boring. And the starlets and models and whomever Courfeyrac liked to pair him with could only take a few weeks of being in the spotlight with him before it wasn’t worth it.

It didn’t help that the biggest “scandal” of his career was the so-called “revelation” that he was bisexual – he had never actually been “in” the closet, but when the first news article reported it, he thought Courfeyrac might actually blow up from the PR disaster that it caused. Apparently, being into men was a huge career killer, though Enjolras had remarked waspishly to Combeferre that apparently no one had bothered to tell the hundreds of gay celebrities that. Once Enjolras had landed his first big role following the announcement, Courfeyrac had calmed down slightly, but still preferred setting him up with women. Enjolras found this highly ironic, given as how Courfeyrac himself was bisexual, and in truth, Enjolras had a sneaking suspicion – by which he meant an absolute certainty that he did not want to reveal to Courfeyrac – that he, Enjolras, was 100% gay, and thus had been avoiding Courfeyrac’s discussion of getting him back in the dating game with whatever starlet du jour.

Needless to say, Enjolras was not looking forward to the personal part of the interview, and when they came back from commercial break, he took several deep, steadying breaths.

“…We’re back with Enjolras Moreau, star of the hit movie adaptation of _Wicked_ , who is returning to Broadway this summer,” said the DJ. “Now, Enjolras, what’s it like being back in New York?”

Enjolras let out a sigh of relief. They were starting off with easy questions, at least. “It’s great. I love New York, it’s a fantastic city in which to live and work, and I’m always glad to be back here. It’s where I got my start, so it’s a very special place for me.”

The DJ looked down at the notes in front of him. “Now, I know you’re really into environmental activism and animal rights, and have been an active supporter of the NOH8 campaign. Do you think your recent rise to fame will help these causes?”

“I can only hope so,” Enjolras replied earnestly. “These are great causes, for obvious reasons, and any help that I can lend with my name or position or whatever, I’m definitely willing to do so.”

“Speaking of NOH8—” _And here it comes_ , thought Enjolras wearily— “You caused quite a stir when you came out at bisexual. What’s it been like for you, being bisexual as a celebrity?”

 _I wouldn’t know; I’ve never been anything else_ , thought Enjolras irritably, though he pasted a smile on his face and focused on not talking through clenched teeth. “You know, I haven’t even thought about it too much. I’ve been very lucky, getting my start on Broadway, because the theatre community is so open and supportive, so I’ve really had a lot of support along the way, and it’s been great. I have no complaints.”

Thankfully, the DJ did not push the question further, as so many other interviewers were wont to do; instead, he shifted gears. “Now, whether on Broadway, on the Silver Screen, or on television, you have starred opposite some very beautiful men and women alike. Who would you say your celebrity crush is?”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he said, attempting a laugh, though it sounded forced. “I don’t really think there’s any one person in particular. I guess I just haven’t really thought about it.”

“C’mon,” chuckled the DJ good-naturedly. “You must have someone in mind, that one person that you would give anything to date.”

“Not really; I’m so lucky to be here,” said Enjolras with a crooked smile. “Like, I’m living the dream, man, and I’m still trying to let it all sink in while keeping my head about water. So I don’t really have the time to think about that stuff, you know?”

“Really?” the DJ pushed. “I mean, you must have most of the young actors and actresses in Hollywood and on Broadway lining up to date you. Surely out of all of them there’s one you want to date?”

“Honestly?” Enjolras laughed again, a little too wry and a little too bitter. “I’m kind of over the whole Hollywood dating scene. I’d rather date someone real, you know what I mean? Someone normal for once. I’m kind of done with dating those who are just in it for the spotlight. Because it can get pretty lonely in this world, and it’d be nice to have someone to remind me of what it’s like to still have my feet on the ground.”

The radio host stared at him, and Enjolras could actually hear Courfeyrac shouting expletives from the supposedly-soundproof sound booth. Enjolras felt his face redden. He had not meant to actually say any of that out loud. “That was…surprisingly candid,” said the radio DJ slowly. “But you heard it here first, folks. Enjolras Moreau is looking for an average person, so who knows? Maybe you could be the one.”

* * *

 

Across town, Jehan waggled his eyebrows at Grantaire. “Aw, listen to that, R. Enjolras is lonely. I bet that you could make him less lonely.”

“Shut up,” muttered Grantaire, but he couldn’t help a small smile from spreading across his face as his mind went far away, imagining all the ways in which he could, in fact, lessen Enjolras’s loneliness.

He was so not paying attention that he didn’t even notice the tender way that Jehan looked at him, whispering to himself, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?/Are you – Nobody – too?/Then there’s a pair of us!”

* * *

 

Stony silence greeted Enjolras from Courfeyrac and Combeferre once the interview was over. Enjolras cleared his throat and made as if to talk, but Courfeyrac just held up a hand. “Don’t. I’m still processing.”

Enjolras looked over at Combeferre. “How bad is it?” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

Combeferre quirked a half-smile at him. “Hard to say. I didn’t think it was too bad, but it’s always hard to tell if Courf is being over-dramatic or not.” Raising his voice to normal speaking volume, Combeferre told Courfeyrac, “I texted Feuilly. He’s bringing the car around.”

Sighing, Enjolras looked over at Courfeyrac, who still looked dazed. “Courf, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry?” Courfeyrac frowned. “Why ever would you be sorry, Enj? I only work my ass off to make you the most eligible bachelor among the rich and famous to increase your standing among these people, and you throw it away in thirty seconds.”

Enjolras frowned. “I did some of the work, too.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “How, exactly? By being the most miserable sod when it comes to your dating life? By barely managing to paste a smile on your face when you have to actually appear in public with a gorgeous girl or boy on your arm? By stuttering your way through interviews about your personal life?” He paused, the signed deeply. “It’s fine,” he said, in a way that said it was anything but. “It’ll be fine.” Courfeyrac’s cell rang, and he snatched it up. “Cosette?” snapped Courfeyrac into his cell. “You heard? Good. Damage control. Now.” He hung up and turned to Enjolras, instantly pasting a smile on his face. “This is fine! We can manage this! We can work with this. We’ll play you up as a romantic, searching for ‘the one’.” He stopped, his eyes taking on a far-off look. “I can see it now. The starlets will be lining up to date you, to be ‘the one’ for you. This could be a great career boost.”

Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “Maybe not starlets this time, Courf.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “Are we back on the guys now? I don’t know, Enj, the gay thing will play fine with the Broadway audiences – not that it matters; did I tell you your first twelve weeks of shows are already sold out? Haven’t even had previews yet! – but it doesn’t work so great with your target demographic in middle America. Can we wait until you land your next movie role?”

Rubbing a hand tiredly across his forehead, Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that I actually meant it when I said I was tired of the Hollywood dating scene?”

“Not really,” said Courfeyrac off-handedly as he texted rapidly on his phone without looking at Enjolras. “I mean, this is the business, babe. You gotta play the game.”

Enjolras made as if to retort, but Combeferre grabbed his arm. “Let it go,” he said softly so that only Enjolras could hear him. “I’ll talk to him later.”

Nodding in assent, Enjolras turned away. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes, trying to clear the misery from his mind. He had rehearsal that afternoon and needed to be on top form. As always, the misery and the loneliness were quickly drained from his face and his brain, taken over by remembering lyrics, lines, choreography and blocking, but never disappearing fully, instead locked in the dark place in his heart where the light of the thought “I’m so lucky to be here” just couldn’t reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last poem quoted by Jehan is "I'm Nobody! Who are you?" by Emily Dickinson.


	3. Act I, Scene 2 - "Some Enchanted Evening"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this story, I've mostly skipped over the part of Enjolras's characterization where he's virginal and has only a love for Patria (though in this story it manifests itself as his career). This is in large part due to the fact that I just [finished a ten chapter fic devoted to the subject](http://archiveofourown.org/works/689246/chapters/1266037), and due the fact that the fun part depends on Enjolras getting over it. So in this regard, Enjolras will always be a little OOC in this (but it's an AU and I do what I want). 
> 
> I should also add, some of the songs that I've chosen have had specifically mentioned genders changed (i.e. in the song below, it was originally "you'll see her"); I've changed these to "him" or "he" for the purpose of this fic because I felt like it. There's only a few instances where you'll see this (one of which is below), but thought I'd warn you anyway.
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies.

Act I, Scene 2 – “Some Enchanted Evening” – _South Pacific_

“ _Some enchanted evening_  
 _You may see a stranger_  
 _You may see a stranger_  
 _Across a crowded room_  
 _And somehow you know_  
 _You know even then_  
 _That somewhere you’ll see him_  
 _Again and again_.”

Grantaire was not drunk enough for this. Jehan was bouncing around his apartment, chattering excitedly about something and Grantaire couldn’t quite make out any English words in what he was saying. The pounding headache that he had been trying to drink off since waking up at noon was returning in full force and he was not pleased. At all. “Jehan,” he snapped, reaching out and grabbing the poet to stop him from moving about. “Stop. Slow down. Repeat whatever it is you just said at a speed that I can actually understand. Also, stop bouncing around; you’re making me sea-sick.”

Instead of being perturbed by Grantaire, Jehan just grinned even wider. “I. Met. Someone,” he said, deliberately slowly.

“And I give a shit why?” asked Grantaire tiredly. It was not meant to offend Jehan, because Jehan was a romantic who fell into and out of love more often than anyone else Grantaire had ever met. That and to Jehan, “meeting someone” could mean a range of things – he met someone pretty, or he met someone he wrote a poem about, or he met someone who was really super nice to him, etcetera ad nauseam.

Jehan continued grinning. “Well, for starters, he’s gorgeous. And we’re going out tonight. But that’s not the important part. When we got to chatting, I asked what he did, and he said that he was an agent, like a talent agent, like for actors, like Ari from _Entourage_ —”

“I get the picture, Jehan.”

“Right,” continued Jehan cheerily, barely even noticing Grantaire’s interruption. “So I asked if he was the agent for anyone famous and he said he couldn’t tell me so I pouted, which apparently works a lot better in real life than I thought it would, because he kissed me and it was great because he tasted like coffee and chocolate and—”

Grantaire threw a pillow at him. “Would you get to the point already?”

Rolling his eyes, Jehan sat primly on the edge of Grantaire’s bed, his grin turning sly. “The point, mon ami, is that he happens to be the agent of the one and only Enjolras.”

“So?” asked Grantaire, pulling at a loose thread in his sweater.

“So?” squeaked Jehan in outrage, rolling over to look at him. “So? What do you mean, so? I have single-handedly gotten you close to meeting your Apollo, and all you can say is ‘so’?”

Shrugging, Grantaire said, “I mean, it’s not like you met him or something. You met his agent, who probably doesn’t even see him all that often, and—”

“No, no, no,” said Jehan excitedly, cutting Grantaire off. “That’s the best part. See, when I said we’re going out tonight, what I meant was we’re going to this really cool club opening – VIP, mind you – and Enjolras is actually going to be there, and the best part is, you’re coming too.”

This peaked Grantaire’s interest. “Are you serious?” he breathed, trying desperately to control his suddenly racing heart.

“As a heart attack,” Jehan said chirpily.

Grantaire reached out and grabbed Jehan’s arm. “Fucking shit, Prouvaire, you couldn’t start the damn conversation with, ‘Hey, you and I are going to meet Enjolras Moreau tonight’?”

Jehan just giggled and bounced out of arm’s reach. “More fun this way.” He stood up abruptly and crossed over to Grantaire’s closet. “Now we just have to figure out what you’re going to wear…”

“No, absolutely not. You are not dressing me.”

Jehan pouted and gave Grantaire his biggest puppy-dog eyes. “But they probably have a dress code and I would hate more than anything if we got all the way there and you didn’t even get to go in because you decided ripped jeans and a holey t-shirt was an appropriate thing to wear…”

Groaning, Grantaire gave up and lay back against the bed. “Goddamnit.” Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. “Holy shit, is this actually happening?”

Jehan smirked and turned to make a snide comment but stopped when he saw the look on Grantaire’s face. “Hey,” he said concernedly, moving to sit next to Grantaire. “Are you ok?”

“I just…this can’t really be happening. Like, real life doesn’t work this way.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet, a little sad, with a hint of desperation and just a glimmer of what could be called hope.

Jehan touched Grantaire’s shoulder gently. “Sometimes it does,” he said quietly.

“Not to me.”

Embracing Grantaire fully, Jehan gently stroked Grantaire’s hair. “Few are my years, and yet I feel/The world was ne’er designed for me.” They stayed that way for a long moment, then Jehan whispered, “It will be different this time, chéri. Things are looking up for you, I know it. You’ll meet your muse tonight and then you’ll be inspired to paint even more and then you’ll get a show in a gallery and it will be fantastic, and...”

Grantaire tuned out Jehan’s rambling, leaning contentedly against the poet and closing his eyes. Maybe Jehan was right. Maybe, for once, things were looking up for him. Meeting his idol would be exciting and would hopefully not exacerbate his ridiculous crush too much, and maybe, just maybe, his life could actually get into some kind of normalcy.

He had no idea just how wrong he was.

* * *

 

Grantaire pregamed fairly hard that evening, knowing that he needed to take the edge off before heading out to a club in general, let alone a club where he was going to meet the guy that he had been fantasizing about for months. If Jehan had been there, he would have clucked his tongue and reminded Grantaire that he was not supposed to mix his meds with alcohol, but Grantaire didn’t care. He never had and thus far it hadn’t killed him.

Jehan buzzed his doorbell and Grantaire quickly gulped down the rest of his drink and grabbed his jacket. Thanks to this mysterious Courfeyrac, they were taking a car over to the club, but when Grantaire got to the bottom of the stairs, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw that car apparently meant “limo” in Courfeyrac’s world. Jehan beamed at him from outside the door. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said excitedly, giving Grantaire a hug. “Courfeyrac is just the sweetest. C’mon, I want you to meet him.”

Pulling Grantaire over to the limo, Jehan ushered him inside and gestured dramatically at the man reclining in one of seats, drink glass in one hand, cell phone in the other. “Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, this is my best friend, Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac looked up and instantly dropped his phone into his lap. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed, as if greeting an old friend and not a perfect stranger, grabbing Grantaire’s hand and shaking it. “It’s great to meet you. Jehan’s told me a lot about you.”

Grantaire smiled, slightly uneasy. “Uh, nice to meet you. Jehan’s…not told me much to be honest.”

Courfeyrac let out a booming laugh. “Well, we’ll have plenty of time for me to bore you with all the tedious details. Sit down, please, help yourself to a drink if you’d like.”

With a drink in his hand, Grantaire was marginally more comfortable, though he couldn’t help but think that was also attributed to the ebullient Courfeyrac, who had a disarming way about him. Courfeyrac had slung an arm around Jehan’s shoulders, and Jehan was looking up at him adoringly. Grantaire was still reserving judgment. He looked closely at Courfeyrac, sizing him up. The man obviously had plenty of money; limo and excellent booze aside – Grantaire took another deep drink from his glass – he was wearing what appeared to be a custom suit, with shoes that were worth more than Grantaire still had to pay back in student loans from his one semester of college. But if Grantaire’s estimation was right, he didn’t come from money; he couldn’t put his finger on what, exactly, but something gave him that impression.

This undoubtedly helped him feel a little more at ease around the guy, and by the time they had made it halfway, Grantaire had relaxed and was cracking jokes. Courfeyrac also willingly shared most of his life story, and Grantaire had been right – he didn’t come from money, though apparently Enjolras had. Turns out that he and Enjolras had actually gone to school together. Enjolras double-majored in theatre and vocal performance, of course, while Courfeyrac had gotten a pre-business degree, followed by an MBA. By that point Enjolras had already starred in his first major Broadway show and was looking to expand into movies and television, and Courfeyrac and he got into business, along with their other friend, Combeferre, who was Enjolras’s manager. They had formed the Les Amis Production Company together, which was still going strong, especially with Enjolras’s recent successes.

It hardly felt like time had passed when Courfeyrac cheerfully announced, “We’re here!”

Grantaire looked outside, face falling when he saw they were at the club. He had half-hoped they’d be stopping to pick Enjolras up along the way. As if he had read Grantaire’s mind – which was impossible, because Jehan had _assured_ him that he hadn’t told Courfeyrac about Grantaire’s crush – Courfeyrac said, “Enj and Ferre are joining us a bit later. Enjy had to work tonight. Everyone else should be inside, though!”

They piled out of the limo and it was like something out of a movie. Courfeyrac swaggered up to the doorman, who checked his list and then unclipped the velvet rope to let them inside. The club was fairly well packed, and it took most of Grantaire’s attention just to follow Courfeyrac as he expertly weaved across the floor to the VIP lounge. Another list checked, and they were inside. Courfeyrac stopped in front of a boisterous table, shouting good-naturedly, “Look out, everyone! I’m here!”

Laughter greeted him and introductions were hastily given around the table. Grantaire was certain he’d never remember them all, though he repeated them obediently after each was given. There was Bossuet and Joly, who were sitting as close as they could without being on top of each other, and were apparently Enjolras’s personal trainer and physician, respectively, though when Bossuet introduced himself as a personal trainer, the entire table exploded into laughter at some kind of inside joke (perhaps having to do with the fact that his arm was in a sling and he cast on one of his fingers). Marius and Cosette were also sitting suspiciously close, though in a way that suggested if they were an item, it was a recent thing. Cosette was Courfeyrac’s assistant, and no one seemed able to explain what Marius did, other than he was a childhood friend of Enjolras’s. Then there was a sharp brunette introduced as Eponine, Combeferre’s assistant. She toasted Grantaire and Jehan before shooting whiskey like an expert, and Grantaire had a feeling he was going to like her.

Cosette smiled at them all, then reported to Courfeyrac, “Feuilly just called to say they’re on their way.”

Grantaire looked around, suddenly uncomfortable, anxiety rising in his chest. He nudged Jehan with his elbow. “I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke.”

Joly had obviously overheard and piped up, “Smoking’s really bad for you, you know.”

“I know,” said Grantaire, grinning slightly as he pulled out his pack and lighter. He traipsed out to the back door, where he probably wasn’t even supposed to go, but screw it because if he got yelled at and kicked out, so what?

The anxiety was still pounding in his chest, gripping his heart like a vice. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here tonight. He couldn’t be around this group of cheerful, nice people, because he was anything but cheerful and nice. And besides, Enjolras would probably walk in, take one look at him, and laugh in his face.

At the thought of Enjolras, he peeked back inside for a moment to see if he had arrived. He had not, though Jehan had sat down at the table, holding hands with Courfeyrac. Grantaire leaned his head back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, letting the cigarette smoke curl in lazy spirals from his mouth. He was torn between soul-crushing disappointment and complete relief that the blond god had not appeared yet. Grantaire did not know what he would do when the man did show up, but his best guess was that it would be something stupid. He was better off just leaving, and made up his mind to go back inside and tell Jehan that tonight was not going to work out.

He took one final drag from his cigarette, then turned to head back inside, when the door opened suddenly, the figure stepping out from it nearly bowling Grantaire over. “Hey, watch it—” Grantaire started to complain, but the words died in his throat as he looked up.

It was him.

Enjolras himself was looking down at Grantaire, his cell phone in his hand. “Sorry about that,” he said warmly, and Grantaire thought he might die at the sound of his voice.

Grantaire had thought that, after staring at his pictures for hours, after painting portrait after portrait of the man, that Enjolras’s beauty would somehow be dimmed when he met him in real life. How very wrong he was. Even though he was just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, even though he wore a look on his face that was currently wavering between irritation and amusement, he was the single most beautiful thing that Grantaire had ever seen in his life. “Nrgh,” he stuttered, blushing scarlet and quickly clearing his throat and starting again. “Uh, that’s cool, man. No harm, no foul.”

Inwardly, he cursed. _No harm, no foul? What the fuck was wrong with him?_

* * *

 

Enjolras, for his part, was rather enjoying watching the raven-haired man chewing furiously on his bottom lip, the flush on his face setting off his eyes quite nicely. Then he smelled the reek of cigarettes wafting off the other man and wrinkled his nose, disapproval settling into his face automatically. “Those will kill you, you know,” he said conversationally.

The other man’s eyes snapped up to his and narrowed slightly. “So could getting run over by blond guys who don’t watch where they’re going coming out of doors.”

“Touché,” chuckled Enjolras, throwing up his hands in mock defeat. He offered his hand to Grantaire “I’m Enjolras, by the way.”

“Grantaire.” They shook and then stood there awkwardly for a few seconds. “Sorry, you were going to make a phone call or something…” Grantaire said finally, gesturing at cell phone still clutched in Enjolras’s hand.

Enjolras looked down at the phone as if he were surprised to see it there. “Oh, right. Actually, I just stepped out to get some air. This kind of place”—he waved one hand at the building behind them—“isn’t really my scene, so much.”

Quirking an eyebrow at him, Grantaire asked, “Oh? What is your scene, then?”

“Not really much of anything,” admitted Enjolras with a half-smile. “I don’t really go out all that often, and I’m not much of a drinker.”

Grantaire half-smiled. “That sounds boring.” Enjolras frowned and Grantaire quickly added, “Not that boring is bad. Hell, after some of the nights I’ve had, I’d more than settle for boring.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “No, you’re right, it is boring, for the most part. I pretty much do nothing but work, which is fine and all, but sometimes I need a little…more, you know?”

“Hence why you’re here tonight.” Grantaire didn’t phrase it as a question, but there was a slight lilt to the statement that asked for verification, which he received in the form of a nod and another smile.

“My friends had to practically beg me to come out to this,” he admitted. “I’ve been really busy with work and they apparently all got together and decided I needed the night off. I can’t say they’re entirely wrong, but…”

Cocking his head quizzically, Grantaire asked, “If you weren’t out right now, what would you be doing?”

Enjolras paused, thinking. “Well, for starters, I’d probably be asleep already. And if I wasn’t, then I’d probably just be going over stuff for work, reading maybe, or watching some TV.”

“Having a beer, at least?” asked Grantaire hopefully.

Chuckling, Enjolras shook his head. “Nope, green tea most likely.”

Grantaire let out a low whistle. “Damn, you are boring.”

Enjolras’s answering grin was wide. “I told you so.” He paused, examining the dark-haired man in front of him. “Look, I love my life, boring as it is. But…I’m also starting to feel really glad that I came out tonight.”

* * *

 

Grantaire kept trying to remember to breathe. It was harder than it seemed, especially with the way Enjolras was smiling at him at this very moment. He couldn’t help but smile back, ignoring the way his breath had hitched in his throat and especially ignoring the fact that he was pretty sure that he was blushing. “Um, I should go back inside. My friend’s waiting for me.”

“Sure,” said Enjolras easily, holding the door open for Grantaire and following him in. _This is awkward_ , thought Grantaire. He had no idea how to go about explaining to Enjolras that the friend waiting for him was the one currently perched in Courfeyrac’s lap, playing with his dark curls. Luckily, Enjolras saved him the trouble by looking around the club curiously. “Where’s your friend?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the music.

“Um…” Grantaire pointed weakly in Jehan’s direction.

Enjolras followed where he was pointing, eyes widening. “Oh, your friend is _Jehan_?” he asked, grinning. “I’ve heard all about Jehan. Courf wouldn’t shut up about him. You’ve met Courf?” Grantaire nodded. “You have to meet the rest of the guys, too. C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” Enjolras grabbed his hand to lead him through the crowd, not in a romantic way, Grantaire was sure, just to keep them from getting separated, as it had become quite crowded in the few minutes Grantaire was outside.

Grantaire trailed after Enjolras, fervently hoping that his palms were not sweating as much as he suspected they were, muttering half-heartedly, “I’ve already met them,” then stopped when he saw that the group had indeed gotten larger since he had gone outside. He was introduced rapid-fire to Combeferre, who was sitting next to Courfeyrac; Feuilly, on the other side of Bossuet; and a hulking guy who was standing and leaning against the wall next to the group, Bahorel. Grantaire smiled weakly at him, well aware that this was Enjolras’s bodyguard, and also aware of the way the larger man’s eyes had narrowed at the fact that they were still hand-in-hand.

Grantaire ripped his gaze away from Bahorel to hear Enjolras start to introduce him, until, with an awkward laugh, he said “I just realized, I don’t really know anything about you, Grantaire.”

The group looked highly amused, and Courfeyrac was wearing what could only be described as an evil smirk, while Grantaire colored. “Um, well, there’s not a whole lot to say. I’m 24, and I’m an artist, and…that’s about it.”

Enjolras grinned at him and let go of his hand as if the fact that until that point they had still been holding hands was the most natural thing in the world. He then pulled out a chair for Grantaire to sit down and sat down next to him, launching into a conversation with Combeferre, who was on his other side.

Grantaire smiled hesitantly at the doctor – Joly – who was sitting next to him, then stared down at the table, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. He just had to remember to keep breathing.

* * *

 

Combeferre leaned over to whisper in Enjolras’s ear. “So what’s the deal with you and the artist, hm?”

Enjolras’s eyes flickered over to his then dropped to study the table as if there was something of great interest in the grain of the wood. “Nothing. I just met him. I barely know him. He seems nice, though.”

Smiling, Combeferre leaned even closer to Enjolras. “C’mon, Enj. There’s a reason why I’m your manager. You can tell me.”

It was true – there was a reason why Combeferre was Enjolras’s manager. For starters, he was one of the few people in the world that Enjolras trusted implicitly. He was also the calm between the often-dueling forces that were Courfeyrac and Enjolras, and he also somehow possessed the ability to get Enjolras to do the things that he did not want to do. But most importantly, ever since they had first become friends, Combeferre was the one who could always tell what Enjolras was thinking, could always see behind the mask or façade he wore for the others. The mask he was desperately trying to keep in place at the moment. “He’s…intriguing.”

Combeferre had to give him that, raising his beer to his lips as he observed Grantaire closely. The artist was nothing like Enjolras’s usual type, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Enjolras had been alone for far too long, and had graciously put up with every burgeoning star or starlet Courfeyrac had thrust upon him over the years, but Combeferre knew that the man preferred deeper attachments than that. Combeferre also knew how truthful the words he had uttered in that ill-fated radio interview had been. For all the fame that he had found on stage or in the movies, Enjolras just wasn’t the celebrity type, and he didn’t want relationships that were just meant to be headlines. Combeferre knew that Enjolras had to be lonely, but he also knew that Enjolras always put work first, and in his probably-not-so-expert opinion, it was time for work to take the backseat, just once. “I think he could be good for you,” Combeferre told Enjolras honestly.

“Do you think he knows who I am? He hasn’t said anything about it,” Enjolras whispered to Combeferre.

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Provided he hasn’t been living under a rock for the past two years, yeah.” Then he took in Grantaire’s appearance with a studious eye, sizing up the paint splotches that had not quite been rinsed off his skin, and the way that, while he kept glancing over at Enjolras, he didn’t have the slightly shocked look of someone who had just met a movie star. “Then again, if anyone wouldn’t, it would be him, I suppose.”

Enjolras frowned. “That was not a helpful answer. If he doesn’t know, should I tell him?”

“For Christ’s sake, Enj,” hissed Courfeyrac, leaning across Combeferre to glare at him, “it’s not like you’re marrying the guy or something. Why don’t you actually try and see if there’s anything there between you before you go about sabotaging the whole thing?”

Jumping in his seat and looking around guiltily, Enjolras was glad to see that Grantaire did not appear to have overheard their conversation, though Jehan, who was practically sitting in Courfeyrac’s lap at this point, was well within hearing range.

Enjolras quickly turned back to Grantaire, who chatting animatedly with Joly about something to do with vegans. “It’s just bullshit, man,” laughed Grantaire. “I mean, there’s gotta be less douchebaggy ways to support animals, am I right?”

“Being a vegan is not douchebaggy,” interrupted Enjolras with a frown.

“Of course it is. People are only vegans so they can subsequently turn around and remind you all the time that they’re vegan, and tell you how bad of a person you are for not being vegan.” Pausing, he looked at Enjolras, whose brow was furrowed and looked like he was biting back a retort. “Let me guess, you’re a vegan?”

Enjolras let out his breath in a huff. “Pescatarian, actually, but I do a lot of work with PETA, and I think you’re oversimplifying the matter.” He didn’t feel the need to tell Grantaire that he had been a vegan until he had collapsed during rehearsals for his first Broadway show; from then on, Joly had ordered that Enjolras needed to up his protein intake, so Enjolras had reluctantly integrated fish, eggs and dairy back into his diet. “Vegans bring a lot of awareness to the issue of animal rights and food sustainability.”

Grantaire chuckled. “Vegans do nothing more than engrain the hippy-bullshit stereotype in the minds of the meat-eating masses. It detracts completely from their cause.” He grinned up at Enjolras, unable to help himself. “Besides, meat is murder…tasty, tasty murder.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras leaned forward. “Joke all you want, but you can’t deny the facts,” he started, launching into a lengthy diatribe.

Combeferre leaned over to Courfeyrac. “I haven’t seen Enjolras this worked up in a long time.”

“Mmmm,” murmured Courfeyrac in agreement.

Jehan shifted uncomfortably against Courfeyrac. “If I had known they were just going to fight I wouldn’t have brought Grantaire along…” he started guiltily, but Courfeyrac cut him off with a laugh.

“No, no, you don’t understand. Enjolras being like this…this is a good thing.”

Frowning, Jehan looked up at Courfeyrac. “Enjolras fighting is a good thing?” he repeated, the doubt obvious in his voice as he glanced over at where the blond man was gesturing exasperatedly.

Laughing, Courfeyrac pulled Jehan closer. “Well, it’s certainly not a bad thing. Look, Enjolras has a lot of people in his life who just agree with him and tell him ‘yes’ all the time, in part because of who he is, in part because he’s so damned charismatic I don’t think it’s possible for some people to tell him ‘no’. So to have someone who’ll actually challenge him like this…” Smiling, he pressed a kiss to the top of Jehan’s head. “You did good, kid.”

* * *

 

Time had flown while Grantaire talked and argued with Enjolras. He loved the fire and passion that the other man projected, normally reserved for his stage performances, and Grantaire, of course, was more than willing to keep antagonizing him if it meant continuing to be treated to the exasperated smiles and fiery glances.

Of course, he couldn’t help but think that it was so much worse now that he had actually met Enjolras. Before, when it was a crush, it was mostly harmless, a pretty face to look at and a name to moan into his pillows as he came after jerking off. But now, in real life, sitting next to him, laughing with him, trying to ignore the way his stomach jolted and his skin felt like it was electrified every time Enjolras's arm brushed his, this was so much worse than a crush. Still, he wouldn’t have traded this for anything else in the world.

But all good things had to come to an end, and when he glanced at his cell phone to check the time, he groaned. He had a doctor’s appointment in the morning that he really could not miss (not if he wanted a refill on his prescriptions, at least, and since Jehan had almost murdered him the last time he had forgotten to go the doctor, he had to make sure he went to this). Enjolras noticed the look on his face. “Everything ok?”

“Everything’s fine, I just have to go,” said Grantaire morosely.

A chorus of ‘no’s echoed from around the table, and Grantaire made eye contact with Jehan, who nodded once in understanding. “Give me a minute and I’ll come with you,” the poet said, making as if to extract himself from Courfeyrac’s lap.

Grantaire waved him back into his seat. “Don’t be ridiculous. You live on the other side of the city. I think I can handle taking the subway by myself.”

Enjolras stood. “Here, I’ll walk you to the subway stop at least,” he said, in a tone of voice that left no room for argument.

Shrugging, Grantaire acquiesced, waiting for Enjolras to put his coat on. If he had had eyes for anyone in the room besides Enjolras, he might have noticed Courfeyrac elbowing Combeferre and giving him a grin.

The walk to the subway was not far, and Grantaire suspected that Enjolras wanted to finish their conversation from earlier. He was surprised, then, when, once they had moved away from the club, Enjolras ducked his head, suddenly looking a bit shy. “So…I want to thank you. For tonight.”

“What, for arguing with you the entire time?” laughed Grantaire.

Enjolras shook his head and, to Grantaire’s amazement, blushed. “No, not just that, though that was fun. Or, at least, intellectually stimulating. No, I mean, for hanging out with us and for talking with me so much and…” He trailed off, and his blush deepened. “I’m really not good at this,” he muttered under his breath, glancing over at Grantaire nervously. “I don’t even know if you’re…”

Grantaire stopped walking and looked up at him. His mind was trying to keep up with what was happening, but it had not appeared to make the leap that Enjolras’s did. “If I’m what?”

“If you’re…gay.”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras, open-mouthed, and the blond man flushed scarlet. Without even thinking, Grantaire reached up absently to brush Enjolras’s cheek with his fingertips. “You should wear red more often. It looks really good on you.”

Grinning tentatively at him, Enjolras asked quietly, “Um, is that a yes, then?”

“Huh?” Coming back to reality, it was Grantaire’s turn to blush, and he dropped his hand quickly. “Um, yeah, yeah I am.”

Enjolras waited a beat, then asked, hesitantly, “Can I have your phone number? I’d really like to see you again.”

“Uh, sure,” said Grantaire, quickly rattling off his digits and trying not to shake. He still couldn’t quite believe that this was actually happening.

Then Enjolras texted Grantaire to let him know what his number was, and Grantaire automatically saved the number, his mind still too numb to process what was occurring. After that, they stood there in silence for a moment before Grantaire muttered, “Um, well, I should go.”

“Right,” said Enjolras quickly, tucking his phone back into his pocket. “So I’ll call, or text, or whatever.”

Grantaire looked up at him, hoping his mouth wasn’t still hanging open like an idiot. “Yeah, that’d be…that’d be nice. I’d like that.” Another awkward moment as they both looked at each other, clearly wondering if the other was going to make a move, then Grantaire stuck out his hand. “It was nice to meet you.”

Enjolras smiled as he shook Grantaire’s hand, but he couldn’t stop the knot of disappointment from growing in his chest. “You as well.”

Then, so quickly that Enjolras almost missed it, Grantaire leaned in and kissed Enjolras gently on the lips. It was nothing more than a peck, but it was enough to freeze Enjolras in the moment so that he barely noticed when Grantaire started walking away. He looked after the dark-haired man and wondered once again if Grantaire had known who he was, and if he did, if it would make any difference. And it really wouldn’t make any difference, except that Enjolras was desperate to know if Grantaire was just not affected by his celebrity or oblivious to it. “Do you know who I am?” called Enjolras after Grantaire, unable to stop himself, even though he could feel his face start to burn again. 

Grantaire half-turned, an ironic smile twisting his lips. “Of course I do,” he responded easily, still walking away from Enjolras. “You’re Apollo.”

Then he was gone, out of sight and around the corner, and Enjolras stood there for a moment with an answer that was no answer at all, really. He stood there for a moment longer, then turned and began to trudge back to the bar. Suddenly, his phone buzzed, and Enjolras pulled it out of his pocket, frowning. It was from Grantaire, and all it said was, “ _You should have won an Oscar for Wicked_.”

* * *

 

Back inside the club, Jehan's phone buzzed with a text and he pulled it out and looked down, unable to stop the smile that spread across his face. The text read, “ _Help. I think I'm in love. R._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely forgot to credit the poem Jehan quotes (freaking poets and their freaking poetry quoting). It's "I Would I Were a Careless Child" by Lord Byron.


	4. Act I, Scene 3 - "Run Away with Me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First things first, shoutout to Tumblr user [kamillahn](http://kamillahn.tumblr.com/) who out of the blue [recommended this fic to Two, Four Six, Tveit!](http://twofoursixtveit.tumblr.com/post/45872570286/like-fic-recommendations-because-in-that-case-my) This literally made my entire day when I saw it, so thank you. Consider this chapter dedicated to you and your awesomeness!
> 
> Speaking of awesome, the characters in here are awesome - but I don't own them. The typos? Not awesome, but they are sadly mine.

Act I, Scene 3 – “Run away with me” – _The Unauthorized Biography of Samantha Brown_

  
“ _Let me be your ride out of town_  
 _Let me be the place that you hide_  
 _We can make our lives on the go_  
 _Run away with me_  
 _Mississippi mud – watch me slide_  
 _We’ll be on the road like Jack Kerouac_  
 _Looking back_  
 _Sam you’re ready, Sam_  
 _Let me be your ride out of town_  
 _Run away with me_  
 _California dreams here we come_ ”

 

Enjolras slid back into his seat in the club, wearing a sort of dazed half-grin, his phone still in his hand. Combeferre looked over at him. "Courfeyrac's going to want to vet him," Combeferre murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Vet who?" Enjolras asked nonchalantly, hoping that he wasn't blushing.

Combeferre's answering grin told him that he was. "You know who. Grantaire."

Enjolras couldn’t stop himself from smiling in return. “Courfeyrac can do whatever he likes.” He looked down at his phone and added in undertone, “Ferre, he knew who I was.”

“Hmm?” asked Combeferre, taking a sip of his beer.

“He knew who I was the entire time, Ferre. And he didn’t freak out or do anything embarrassing and he…he said that I should have won an Oscar for _Wicked_.”

Combeferre’s smile softened as he looked over at Enjolras. “Well, you _should_ have won an Oscar for _Wicked_ ,” he said, nudging Enjolras good-naturedly. “But I’m really happy for you, Enj. He seems great.”

Shrugging, Enjolras grabbed his own beer off the table and took a swig. “I mean, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I only just met him. It’s not like we’ve even together or anything. We didn’t do anything more than kiss, and it was a short kiss at that.”

“No, but you wanted to do more,” piped up Jehan from his perch in Courfeyrac’s lap, a wide smile on his face. “Right?”

Enjolras made a strangled noise in the back of his throat as he choked slightly on his beer. He had forgotten that Jehan was still there. “If you tell Grantaire that—” he started threateningly.

Jehan laughed. “Please. Give me some credit. Besides, no one wants to see this work out more than me.”

“I bet I could give you a run for your money,” said Combeferre quietly, eyeing Enjolras seriously.

Ignoring Combeferre, Enjolras frowned at Jehan. “Why do you say that?”

Frowning, Jehan worried his lower lip between his teeth. “I don’t know how much I should tell you…” he said hesitantly. “Just—Grantaire hasn’t always had the easiest life. And having someone like you come into his life – it could be just the thing he needs, you know what I mean?”

Enjolras smiled slightly, looking down at his beer. “Yeah, I know. Believe me, I know.”

* * *

When Enjolras woke the next day, it was with that slight smile on his face. He and Grantaire had exchanged another half-dozen texts as he drifted off to sleep, and he couldn’t help feel slightly disappointed when he checked his phone and there was no new message. There again, he thought, as he rolled onto his back, stretching languidly in his bed, Grantaire – he couldn’t stop the smile as he thought about the man’s name – didn’t exactly strike him as the early-to-rise type, and Enjolras had to admit that, given the time on his clock currently read 7:30am, he was up early. Especially since he didn’t have rehearsal until the afternoon, and had only gotten about five hours of sleep.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel energized, more so than he had in a long time. For the first time in recent memory, he had something to look forward to besides another show or another rehearsal. And while his first love would always be the stage, the place where he always had and always could pour his entire heart and soul passion out, it was kind of exhilarating to have something that he was excited about outside of his job.

Enjolras did not love or fall in love easily, and though he knew it was far too early to be thinking in those terms at all, he had to admit that there was just something about that man. He could not help thinking about the imperceptibly sly look that had crossed Grantaire’s face when he called over his shoulder last night, “You’re Apollo.” The memory brought the flash of smile to his face, and he sighed.

He was awake enough now to toss on some sweat pants and a hoodie and pad from his bedroom to the kitchen to make himself some tea (no coffee today; it was a rehearsal day and he had to make sure his voice was in good form). Speaking of his voice, he subconsciously ran through some vocal warm ups and scales as he put the kettle on.

“Would you shut up?” croaked Bahorel from the second bedroom.

Enjolras jumped slightly. He still wasn’t used to the other man living in the apartment with him, even though it had been close to three months now. Enjolras still had his same apartment from when he had first gotten his start, a relatively luxurious (at the time, though thoroughly modest now) two-bedroom in Queens that had taken his first two paychecks to pay one month’s worth of rent. Of course, he now owned the apartment, and had considered buying the one directly below it to expand, but he hadn’t decided one way or the other. Until just before _Wicked_ came out, he had always had a roommate (his most recent had been a non-descript and fairly quiet man named Mabeuf). Once they saw just how big _Wicked_ was going to be, though, Combeferre had put his foot down on him having a roommate, citing security risks as the reason (which, given the fair number of fangirls who had tried to trail him back to his place even during his pre- _Wicked_ Broadway days, was actually a good point), and Courfeyrac had suggested that Bahorel stay with Enjolras.

He had wanted to protest at that; it was bad enough that Bahorel was his bodyguard when he was out and about; he barely needed the man to live with him. And it wasn’t anything against Bahorel, who, like all Les Amis, had been his friend for years. It was more that Enjolras liked to be alone, in his own place, where even he could take a break from work for a few hours. Plus he just felt ridiculous having a live-in bodyguard. He wasn’t _that_ famous.

A run-in with a stalker the week _Wicked_ opened had made him reluctantly agree that it wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

He hadn’t even put his foot down when Feuilly had become roommates with Bahorel after getting evicted from his own apartment – something about an argument involving Poland with his German landlady; Enjolras knew better than to ask – because he also had to admit that it made a lot of sense to have his driver live in as well. And to be fair, as much as he liked being on his own, Bahorel and Feuilly were easy enough roommates, just enough company for when he wanted it, but perfectly content to leave him alone when he needed space.

Thus even though Enjolras owned the place and, in theory, Feuilly and Bahorel were paying him rent (he was supposed to deduct it from their paychecks, but had never actually done so), he still felt bad when he woke one or both of them up this early. “Sorry!” he called down the hall.

Yawning widely, Feuilly padded into the kitchen. “Ignore him,” he murmured to Enjolras as he grabbed a mug from the cupboard. “It’s not as if he hasn’t been up for half an hour doing his krav maga training. The bastard.”

“I heard that, you traitor,” said Bahorel with a joking pout as he, too, joined them in the kitchen.

“Now, now children,” chided Enjolras jokingly as he leaned against the counter sipping his tea. Feuilly made a whimpering noise when he saw the empty coffee pot and Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, I didn’t make any. I have rehearsal today. You can have some tea if you’d like.”

Feuilly muttered something under his breath that may have been Polish. “You both wake me up this early and expect me to survive without coffee?”

Bahorel had laughed at Feuilly’s anguish earlier, but quickly rearranged his face into something much more somber. “You know, Enj, for all your talk of supporting causes, this is awfully inhumane of you. I think we’re going to have to go to the coffee shop. And you’re going to have to buy.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras was about to reply that they could go just fine without him but was interrupted with a text from Grantaire. All it said was, “ _Good morning_ ,” but Enjolras grinned widely at it just the same.

Exchanging glances and smirks with Bahorel, Feuilly asked innocently, “Enjolras, aren’t you coming with us?”

“What?” asked Enjolras distractedly, not looking up from his phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He slipped into his tennis shoes and grabbed his jacket while still texting Grantaire, and it wasn’t until he was halfway down the stairs that he realized what had happened.

* * *

The coffee shop – always referred to as such by Les Amis – was a comfortable and small place around the corner from Enjolras’s apartment. They made excellent tea and coffee and had a wide selection of bagels, making it the perfect morning spot. Enjolras waved vaguely to the girl behind the counter, preoccupied with the text he was sending Grantaire. “ _Lunch, today, my treat? Not sure when you’re done with whatever you had going this morning. I have rehearsal at 2 so can do anytime before that_.”

It took less than a minute to get a response. “ _Sounds good. Anyplace u had in mind?_ ”

“ _The Corinth? It’s this café…_ ”

As Enjolras texted Grantaire the directions and grinned at Grantaire’s assurance that he could be there, the barista leaned over the counter to stare almost open-mouthed at Enjolras. “What’s gotten in to _him_?” she asked Feuilly and Bahorel in undertones.

“He met someone,” answered Bahorel with a grin.

The barista sighed. “That’s so cute,” she breathed. “I’ll make a heart in the foam of his espresso.”

Feuilly laughed as he accepted a mug from her. “It’s a tea day for him, unfortunately. And I’m not sure he’d appreciate it, anyway.”

“I don’t know…I mean, look at him.” The three did, watching the way he worried his bottom lip with his teeth as he typed furiously, and the way his face lit up each time he got a new text. She sighed again. “It’s just so cute. Tell him congrats from me, will you?”

Bahorel accepted the bagels from her and gave her a smile. “For you, madam, anything,” he said with a mock bow, turning and following Feuilly over to where Enjolras sat.

Feuilly set the mugs on the table with enough force that it should have brought Enjolras from his reverie, though it appeared to have little effect. “The barista says congratulations, by the way,” grinned Feuilly as he slid Enjolras’s tea over to him.

Enjolras looked up, startled. “I have no clue what she means by that.”

Bahorel chortled as he passed a bagel to Enjolras. “Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.”

As if in response to Bahorel, Enjolras’s phone lit up with another text. “ _Heading 2 my appt now. See u soon!_ ” Enjolras practically beamed and looked confused when Bahorel and Feuilly laughed.

* * *

After finishing his bagel, Enjolras sipped on his tea, lounging back in his chair. His phone beeped and he checked it instantly, though he knew it couldn’t be from Grantaire. It was from Combeferre, and Enjolras’s brow furrowed in a frown. “ _Courf and I are on our way. Courf needs to talk to you.”_

That certainly didn’t sound good. Enjolras frowned even deeper as he slid his phone back into his pocket. He looked over at Bahorel and Feuilly. “Courf and Ferre are on their way over.”

Exchanging glances, Feuilly asked, “Do you need us to leave you guys alone when they get here?”

“I don’t know; I don’t know what they want to talk about.” Enjolras tried not to sound as frustrated as he felt. “It doesn’t sound good, though.”

Bahorel frowned. “If Courf’s on his way here to talk to you in person after 8am on a weekday when he should be at the office, you know it’s not good.”

Sighing, Enjolras rubbed his forehead. “I figured that out on my own, thanks,” he said, but without any real venom in his voice. Courf only left the office when they had important interviews, meetings and such forth when he was needed to schmooze and promote Enjolras, and even when he had bad or disappointing news for Enjolras – like Enjolras not getting a part, or something similar – Enjolras went into the office for that. Which meant this was bad news of a different ilk.

He could not stop the bubble of anxiety that welled in his stomach while they waited, mostly in silence, for Courfeyrac and Combeferre to arrive. Twenty minutes later, when they finally did, Eponine and Cosette (with Marius) in tow, Enjolras’s eyes flashed from Courfeyrac’s to Combeferre’s, demanding information, answers. Courfeyrac looked tired, and Combeferre was unreadable, but there was a stoniness in his eyes that made Enjolras even more worried. “What is it?” he asked, in lieu of a greeting.

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac, who had suddenly become very interested in the sugar and creamer on the table in front of him. With a sigh, Combeferre said quietly, “It’s about Grantaire.”

“What about Grantaire?” asked Enjolras, trying to keep his temper under control.

Looking over at Courfeyrac again, Combeferre shrugged. “This is all you, Courf. You’re the one who wanted to have this conversation with him, not me.”

Enjolras looked between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac still seemed determined not to meet his eyes. “Spit it out already, would you?”

Courfeyrac chewed on his lip and shared a look at Combeferre, who had his poker face set. "I vetted him, Enj. And it's...it's not good."

"What do you mean, it's not good?" snapped Enjolras, his temper getting the best of him.

Looking at Combeferre for help - and after Combeferre did nothing more than stare stonily back at him - Courfeyrac continued, "He's...he's kind of a mess, Enjolras. History of drug and alcohol abuse, mental health issues, dropped out of university after only a semester—"

"So?" Enjolras interrupted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. "Why does any of that matter?"

"Because you have to think of how it looks!" Courfeyrac snapped, his voice perhaps harsher than he had meant it to be. "For Christ's sake, Enj, one picture of you and this guy together in some tabloid and it'll be all over the news that you're doing drugs and hooking up with some low-life druggie. It'll be a complete scandal."

Enjolras clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms to stop from screaming. This was the exact opposite of how he had thought this day was going to go. "What if I don't care about any of that?” 

Courfeyrac looked at him blankly. “What do you mean, what if you don’t care? You have to care, Enj. This is your career we’re talking about here. All of our careers. Imagine if you got caught up in this and directors didn’t want to hire you for projects. What would happen to all of us?”

It hit Enjolras exactly in his weak spot. Enjolras was passionate about his career, and perhaps even more passionate about his friends’ careers. He knew that, despite being talented in their own fields and in their own right, he had gotten many of them this far, and thus the weight was still on him to continue to keep it up. His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes, trying not to picture what would happen to all of them if Courfeyrac’s worst-case scenario came true.

He was about to acquiesce when Combeferre spoke up. “No.” Combeferre’s voice was firm, firmer than Enjolras had perhaps ever heard from the bespectacled man.

Courfeyrac looked over at him sharply. “What do you mean, no?” he demanded. “You of all people know how important this is, how much this can affect all of us.”

“And that’s why I’m saying no. Enjolras has given more to this company than any other person here. He’s given his life, heart and soul to this company, and I don’t just mean in his acting. He’s sacrificed more than anyone to keep this image going, the one that you’ve crafted. It’s time to let him actually be his own person.”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “Ferre, don’t, it’s fine.”

Combeferre’s eyes flashed behind his glasses. “No, Enj, don’t tell me it’s fine. You know that it’s not.” He turned back to Courfeyrac. “Courf, you can stop trying to set Enjolras up with whatever starlet is interested in dating him. Enjolras is gay, and he’s not going to date any more starlets just for his so-called image.”

“Ferre!” Enjolras exclaimed, flushing scarlet – because he had never told Ferre that, damnit! – while Courf looked stricken.

“Also,” Combeferre continued as if Enjolras had not interrupted him, “Enjolras has feelings for Grantaire. Serious feelings. And he’s made enough of a good-guy image for himself over the years that he will more than weather whatever the tabloids throw at him over this.”

Enjolras just stared at Combeferre. Cosette was looking between Courfeyrac and Combeferre with a horrified look on her face There was a tense moment of silence and then – Eponine snorted with laughter. “C’mon, you guys,” she chuckled. “You can’t tell me this isn’t a little funny. You guys are acting like Enjolras is never going to get hired again if he dates this guy. For Christ’s sake, this is literally going to be one of the most minor scandals in Hollywood this year.”

Cosette let out a nervous titter. “It could actually help Enjolras’s image. Next thing you know, he’s going to get cast as a druggie in the next big indie flick, or his new ‘bad-boy’ rep will land him some excellent photo spreads and magazine covers.”

“And you’re the one who always says that there’s no such thing as bad publicity, Courf,” added Feuilly.

“Besides,” Cosette said, reaching out to grab Marius’s hand and smile at him sweetly, enough so that the rest of the group wanted to collectively vomit, “he’s doing it for _love_.”

Enjolras wanted to protest that he was hardly in _love_ with this guy but couldn’t seem to remember how to make his mouth work. Courfeyrac still looked unconvinced. “C’mon, Courf,” said Combeferre gently. “When was the last time Enjolras wanted anything for himself?”

Huffing a sigh, Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras. “Do you want this, truly? Regardless of the cost to your career? To Les Amis?”

Enjolras met his gaze steadily. “If I truly thought this would hurt Les Amis, you know I wouldn’t do it,” he said firmly. “But Courf, there’s something here that I’ve never experienced before. I don’t know if it will work out, or if it’s even going anywhere, but all I ask is to be able to try, to see.”

“Fine,” sighed Courfeyrac, rubbing his forehead wearily. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Cosette, I need you to be ready for spin when this becomes a thing, and you know it will. Keep an eye on the major studios, see if anything happens with the offers we’ve got on the table. Combeferre…” He paused and looked directly at the other man. “You’re his manager, so you get to manage this. I think it’s a mistake, so…you’re in charge.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Combeferre, his voice even. “I completely understand.”

Sighing heavily, Courfeyrac gathered up the papers from in front of him. “Fine. Meeting adjourned, everyone. Enj, you have rehearsal this afternoon and then we’re conference-calling with one of the studios later to talk about an upcoming project.”

“Thank you,” said Enjolras quietly, and he reached out to grip Courfeyrac’s arm. “Truly. For everything.”

Courfeyrac scowled at him, though without any real menace in his face. “You just better make sure that it’s worth it, Enj.”

Enjolras looked down at his phone. “I hope that it will be.”

* * *

 

At exactly twelve o’clock, Enjolras rounded the corner heading to the Corinth. He felt a smile like he hadn’t worn in years bloom across his face when he saw Grantaire leaning casually against the side of the café, and smiled all the wider when he saw a matching grin light up on Grantaire’s face.

The dark haired man stood up straight when Enjolras approached. “Hey,” he said, his voice quiet, and almost a little unsure.

“Hey,” said Enjolras, suddenly aware of his hands in his pockets and awkwardly uncertain of what he was supposed to do with them. Should he kiss him? Go for the handshake? Do nothing?

Grantaire was biting his lower lip as if contemplating the same thing, and Enjolras couldn’t help but stare at his lips, but also couldn’t help but be aware of the fact that they were in the middle of a crowded street and that if he did what Grantaire’s lips were inspiring him to do, he’d probably be arrested, and Courf would thus be proven correct.

 Instead, he reached out and pulled Grantaire into a gentle hug. Grantaire seemed surprised for a moment, stiff in Enjolras’s arms, then relaxed, gripping the back of Enjolras’s shirt briefly.

They stepped apart far too soon and smiled nervously at each other. Grantaire looked almost nervously over Enjolras’s shoulder. “Where’s your, uh, your…Bahorel?”

Enjolras chuckled slightly at Grantaire’s awkward phrasing. “He’s in the car with Feuilly. That’s one of the major appeals of this place; I’ve been coming here since I first moved to New York and I’m really close with the owner, Musichetta. I’m safe here, for lack of a better word. To quote Bahorel, ‘She’d get all mama-bear on any crazies.’”

“I’ll try not to appear too crazy, then,” said Grantaire with a slight grin.

Enjolras smiled warmly in response and grabbed Grantaire’s hand. “You’re with me; you’ll be fine.” He pulled him into the café, where they both ordered sandwiches and sat down at a small table in the corner, the kind where though they were nominally sitting across from each other, they were also sitting close enough together they could and did keep hitting each other’s arms and elbows in a way that would should have been awkward but instead left them with swooping sensations in their stomachs and fleeting grins across their faces.

After finishing his sandwich, Enjolras took a long draft of tea and looked over at Grantaire. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said with a smile. “I really enjoyed arguing with you last night.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him and set the remnants of his sandwich on the plate in front of him. “That’s pretty fucked up, you realize.”

Enjolras nudged him with his shoulder. “You know what I mean. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. You’re easy to talk to, even if you’re also infuriating in your viewpoints.”

“In fairness, I did only argue half of what I did to piss you off,” grinned Grantaire.

It was Enjolras’s turn to raise an eyebrow at him. “So you believe the opposite of some of the points you were arguing last night?”

Laughing, Grantaire shook his head. “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more apathy on many of the points than feelings in one direction or another.”

Enjolras frowned. “But surely you can’t feel apathy about everything. What about the gay rights movement, for instance? Or—”

Grantaire grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “As fascinating as my lack of conviction probably is to you, you do have to leave for rehearsal in like half an hour and I’d really rather not spend the entire time defending why I don’t feel one way or the other to you. Besides, you don’t want to wear your voice out, now do you?”

Squeezing his hand and lacing their fingers together, Enjolras smiled at him. “You’re right, I suppose,” he said reluctantly, but the smile on his face belied any regrets he might have at the way Grantaire cut off the conversation. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “This feels nice,” he said off-handedly, raising his tea to his mouth and taking a long sip. “It was a rough morning and it feels good to be here, with you.”

“Rough morning, hm?” asked Grantaire with a smile. “What was so rough about it?”

Sitting up, Enjolras frowned, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Um, bit of a long story,” he hedged, but Grantaire just looked at him quizzically. “Courfeyrac – my agent – had some misgivings about me dating you,” Enjolras confessed reluctantly, looking down at their entwined fingers.

Grantaire tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. “And what did you say to that?”

Enjolras met Grantaire’s eyes, his own suddenly burning. “I told him to stuff it.” He paused, then added, even more grudgingly than before, “Well, actually, Ferre told him to stuff it.”

“Oh?”

A blush rose in Enjolras’s cheeks, and he looked away again, carefully disentangling his fingers from Grantaire’s to run them through his hair. “There’s no way for me to say this without it sounding wrong, but Courfeyrac is convinced that me dating you would be a terrible career move. And not just for myself. If it were just for me, I would’ve laughed in his face and told him where he could stick my career. But…” He trailed off, and Grantaire could see the guilt and indecision that played out over Enjolras’s face before it was smoothed into something less obvious. “There are other people who rely on me. And…and I would never want to let them down. Which was why Ferre had to be the one to tell Courfeyrac to stick his nose out for once. Because I…I just couldn’t. It would have been so…selfish of me.”

“Selfish. Of you.” Grantaire’s voice sounded strange even to him, hollow and slightly strangled.

Grabbing Grantaire’s hands in both of his own, Enjolras said fiercely, “Please don’t misunderstand, or think this is about you in any way. It’s not. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you, or with the fact that I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since last night. Truly. But I owe them so much and—”

Grantaire made a choking sound that may have started as a laugh deep in his throat. “I’m not worried about that. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that there’s some world where it would be selfish of you to want me. As if that in and of itself isn’t charity in the truest sense of the word.”

Enjolras frowned at Grantaire. “I don’t follow.”

Easing his hands away from Enjolras’s, Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest as if subconsciously trying to hold himself together. “Your friend, Courfeyrac – he’s probably right about me,” said Grantaire in a quiet voice. “I’m an absolute mess, Enjolras. Fucked up far beyond the kinds of things that ‘fucked up’ normally covers. And it could easily be the worst decision you’ve ever made to want to go out with me or, hell, to even be seen in public with me. So the very idea that you think it would be selfish of you to want any part of that…” Grantaire shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense to me.”

Enjolras looked at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “Why wouldn’t I want to be seen in public with you?”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “Besides the obvious fact that I’m a completely broke artist with nothing to show for my life? Think of what the tabloids would say about you slumming it.”

The set of Enjolras’s jaw was decidedly stubborn. “And why in the world would you think that I care what the tabloids have to say about me?”

“For the very reason that you mentioned.” Grantaire’s voice was soft, all mocking lost from it. “You have people who rely on you, whose careers rely on yours. For you to put that in jeopardy…”

“Do you believe in fate?” asked Enjolras abruptly.

Grantaire stared at him blankly for a moment before a slightly puzzled look crossed his face. “I believe—” He cut himself off, a wry twist to his mouth. “I don’t believe in anything.”

Enjolras looked at him, something sad in his eyes, but then he said, in a low voice so quiet that Grantaire almost had to strain to hear it, but so passionate that Grantaire believed every word, “I did not used to believe in fate, or, I suppose more accurately, I thought men made their own fate, but now…It’s as if there was a hole in my life that I did not know existed until I met you, until you filled it. You just…fit.” He entwined his fingers with Grantaire’s again. “We fit. Together. And I can’t help but think that fate had something to do with that. And if that’s true, then it will all work out, for me and for everyone else.”

“Fate’s got a pretty sick sense of humor, then,” Grantaire grimaced. He paused for a moment, then said, almost reluctantly, “Look, you should know – if you’re serious about this, if you really want to pursue this in spite of everything that says you shouldn’t – you should know some things about me.”

Enjolras looked at him sharply. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Your past is your past.”

Grantaire let out a shaky laugh. “It’s not just my past, though. It’s…I wasn’t joking when I said I was fucked up. I have…problems, issues, whatever you want to call them. Mental stuff. I take more meds than people who have cancer – that’s where I was today, by the way, at the shrink – and some days it’s fine but others…” He trailed off, eyes distant. “I get moody and angry and distant and I fuck up everything I touch.”

“None of that matters to me—” Enjolras protested softly, but Grantaire cut him off.

“But it _should_ matter to you. For fuck’s sake, you’re like Apollo come down to Earth, and I’m just a drunken, crazy fuck-up who sometimes paints. These are things that aren’t meant to go together.”

“According to whom?” challenged Enjolras.

Grantaire snorted derisively. “Common sense, for starters. Seriously, if you had any sense, you would get out now while you still can. Go back to your perfect life with your perfect job and your goddamn perfect fucking face—Christ, can you _not_ look at me like that? It makes it hard for me to keep talking.”

“Then maybe you should stop talking for a minute.” Enjolras looked intently at Grantaire, who was breathing heavily, eyes glittering with what looked like unshed tears. In a low voice, Enjolras said wearily, “My life is far from perfect, Grantaire, and the only part of you that could make it worse is if you weren’t a part of it at all.”

Opening his mouth to talk, to protest, something, Grantaire suddenly found that he had nothing really to say to that. He wanted to tell Enjolras that he was making the biggest mistake of his life, but the way the blond man was looking at him, with those eyes, so intense, his forehead wrinkled slightly in a frown, Grantaire couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“I know it’s fast,” said Enjolras quickly when the silence had spanned an uncomfortable amount of time. “And I know that it’s completely crazy, and I can understand one hundred percent if you want nothing to do with this, or with me, or with this lifestyle. But I...” He looked down and gulped. “I don’t know if I have ever wanted anything as badly as I want this. You. Us.” Grantaire opened his mouth to speak but Enjolras continued hurriedly without looking at him. “And it makes perfect sense that you don’t want this, because you don’t believe in fate, you don’t believe in anything—”

Grantaire’s hands fisted in Enjolras’s jacket, pulling the blond man as close to him as possible and cutting off his talking with the abruptness of the move. “I believe in _you_ ,” he whispered before leaning up to kiss him.

It started off slow and sweet but quickly turned hot and heady, Enjolras’s mouth opening against Grantaire’s, tongues probing as their hands curled in each other’s hair. Both seemed to forget that oxygen was a necessary thing until Enjolras’s phone beeped, bringing them both back to reality. “Damnit,” growled Enjolras, his forehead resting against Grantaire’s as he fished his phone from his pocket. He checked the screen and sighed. “I have to go.”

Grantaire kissed him once more. “When will I see you again?” he whispered. “Tonight?”

Enjolras groaned. “I have rehearsal and then a meeting with Courf until late and then early rehearsal tomorrow morning.”

Frowning, Grantaire suggested, “What about this weekend?”

“I’m flying out to California,” said Enjolras, almost sheepishly. “I’m nominated for a stupid MTV movie award.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re nominated for two: Best Male Performance and Best Kiss,” sighed Grantaire off-handedly as he reluctantly pulled away from Enjolras. He blushed scarlet when he realized what he had said. “Um, there’s really no reasonable way for me to know that, is there?”

Enjolras laughed. “Not really, but I can pretend it didn’t happen.” Suddenly, he perked up. “I have an idea.”

“Do share.”

Leaning forward earnestly, Enjolras said, “I normally go to these things with Combeferre because he’s my manager, but I know he won’t mind; he hates this kind of stuff. Why don’t you come with me?”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras. “You want me to come with you to California?”

“Yeah, why not? I’d actually enjoy myself if you were there. We can make a weekend of it. It’s probably the only chunk of time that I know for a fact I don’t have rehearsals or anything scheduled. We can get to know each other away from all this. Figure out if we’re really compatible or if I’m jumping the gun more than I pretty sure I already have.”

Frowning almost absently, Grantaire muttered, “Jumping the gun may be an understatement.”

Confusion and worry flitted across Enjolras’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, his voice tight. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to presume that this would be something that you were interested in. Or that this was even a good idea. I…I don’t know what came over me.”

“You mean you don’t normally proposition men you’ve only known for eighteen hours to fly across the country with you at the drop of a hat?” Grantaire had meant for the question to sound like teasing, but when he saw the panicked look on Enjolras’s face, he reached out to cup the blond man’s cheek. “Hey, I was kidding. I know you don’t normally do this, anymore than I do. I just…I need a little time to wrap my head around all of this.”

Enjolras let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “I completely understand. Take as much time as you need.”

Grantaire grinned up at him. “But you’d really like to know my answer now, wouldn’t you?”

A smile quirked the corners of Enjolras’s mouth. “How well you know me already.” Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. “I hardly claim to be a role model in patience, but I don’t want to force you into make a decision you’ll regret, either.”

Chewing absently at his lip, Grantaire looked down at the table. “I wish Jehan were here. He’d have some stupid fucking poem to recite to try and motivate me in his own bizarre way.”

To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras frowned momentarily in concentration, then recited, slowly but surely, “You’re on your own. And you know what you know/And you are the guy who’ll decide where to go.”

Grantaire stared at him open-mouthed. “What in the hell was that?”

Enjolras blushed scarlet. “Um, Dr. Seuss. ‘Oh, the Places You’ll Go.’ The only poem I know, really, and only because that book has been given to me as a gift at least once every time I work on a new project.”

“Jehan would’ve given me Keats, or Shakespeare or Browning or someone like that. You gave me Dr. Seuss.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet, unreadable, and Enjolras frowned.

“I know it’s no Keats, and I am no Jehan, but—”

Grantaire’s lips on his cut him off. This kiss was hot and passionate from the beginning, and over far too quickly, Grantaire pulling away with a wild look in his eyes. “I don’t want Keats. You know who my favorite poet is? Shel fucking Silverstein.” He kissed Enjolras again, slower this time. “I would take Dr. Seuss over Shakespeare any day of the goddamn week.” Leaning away again, he took a deep breath. “I don’t believe in fate, but if that isn’t a sign I don’t know what is. So against all my perhaps better judgment, yes, I will go to California with you.”

Enjolras grinned widely and had grabbed the front of Grantaire’s shirt to pull him in for another kiss when his cell phone went off. Cursing under his breath again, he checked it and swore out loud. “Shit, I really have to go. I’ll call with the details for California later?”

“Sure,” said Grantaire agreeably. “Have fun at rehearsal.”

Enjolras stood, then leaned down and kissed Grantaire, softly and sweetly. “I’ll be thinking of you the entire time.” He blushed. “That sounded three times as suave and half as cheesy in my head.”

Smiling crookedly, Grantaire said, “You already quoted Dr. Seuss to me. I don’t think cheesy is something we really need to be concerned with.” Enjolras just grinned in response before kissing him once more and practically jogging out the door. Grantaire watched him go, an almost dazed look on his face. To himself, so quietly that he could barely tell if he was speaking or simply thinking, he said, “Anything can happen, child. Anything can be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's quote at the very end is from a poem by Shel Silverstein.
> 
> Quick Courfeyrac note - Courfeyrac is Enjolras's agent, which means that he's more or less the liaison between Enjolras and the various studios, etc. However, I've folded a PR piece into his role in this (something that would normally be done by a separate person) because of the way that I've envisioned Les Amis Production Company being set up.
> 
> So I'm normally not the kind to beg for comments, but I'm quite terrible at writing fluff, particularly at maintaining characterizations in fluff, so any comments on that - _especially if you don't like it/have suggestions on improving it_ \- would be lovely and highly appreciated. Since the next chapter is basically all just fluff, I'd like to have it not suck. In theory.


	5. Act I, Scene 4 - "As Long as You're Mine"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer: anything you recognize does not belong to me.
> 
> I'm at home for Spring Break (which one would think would be a relaxing time when I'd be able to write; one has not met my mother, and thus one would be wrong), so the next chapter may be a few days delayed.

Act I, Scene 4 - “As Long as You’re Mine” – _Wicked_

“ _Kiss me too fiercely, hold me too tight_  
 _I need help believing you’re with me tonight_  
 _My wildest dreamings could not foresee_  
 _Lying beside you, with you wanting me_  
 _And just for this moment_  
 _As long as you’re mine_  
 _I’ve lost all resistance_  
 _And crossed some borderline_  
 _And if it turns out_  
 _It’s over too fast_  
 _I’ll make every last moment last_  
 _As long as you’re mine_ ”

Courfeyrac and Jehan were supposed to meet at 8pm for dinner (sushi, in one of those restaurants with a six-year long waiting list where you basically had to sacrifice your first-born to get in – Courfeyrac had arranged it, of course), but 8:15 rolled around and Jehan was no where to be found. Courfeyrac toyed nervously with the mostly-full martini in front of him at the bar and resisted the urge to pull out his phone and call. _It was probably just the subway running late. Or maybe he caught a cab and got stuck in traffic_.

Then it was 8:30, the martini glass was empty, and Courfeyrac had a gnawing feeling in his stomach not totally due to the lack of food. With a sigh, he gave in and pulled out his phone, quickly sending off a rapid-fire text. _U on ur way?_

His phone buzzed a little later. _Yeah. Sorry. Got caught up with something. Be there soon._

Considering Jehan had spent most of the morning texting him poetry (and some had been very dirty poetry at that), this text stood out in stark contrast, and Courfeyrac frowned deeply at it.

It was another fifteen minutes before Jehan finally came in the restaurant, and Courfeyrac smiled widely when he saw him. “Where have you been? I’m starving,” he complained, folding Jehan into a hug. He let go as soon as he felt how stiff the other man was in his arms. “Jehan? What’s wrong?”

Jehan crossed his arms in front of his chest and glared at Courfeyrac – a rather impressive glare considering he probably weighed 130 pounds soaking wet. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out about your little conversation with Enjolras this morning?”

“What little conver—oh.” Courfeyrac felt his face flush slightly. He had completely forgotten that Grantaire was Jehan’s friend, that Enjolras would have, of course, told Grantaire what happened and Grantaire in turn would have told Jehan. “Would you believe me if I said that it had nothing to do with you?”

The continued glare told him ‘no’. “He’s my best friend, Courf, and has been for years.” Jehan’s voice was quiet, but determined. “I know that you have to do what you have to do in this business, and I don’t begrudge you that, but why wouldn’t you have come to me? Talked to me about it first?”

Courfeyrac sighed. “Because it didn’t involve you.” Jehan’s brow furrowed, and he made as if to say something, but Courfeyrac cut him off. “I know Grantaire is your friend, as much as Enjolras is mine, but this was not a matter between friends. Enjolras is my client in addition to being my friend, and that makes our relationship…complicated. I must always be on the lookout for his best interest, career-wise. It’s my job. And I do it damn well, if I do say so myself. So I had to present the facts to him, as unsavory as those facts may be, or as much as I may not personally like the outcome. He still had to know all the facts before jumping into this, because making this decision.”

“Enjolras chose him anyway.”

Smiling wanly, Courfeyrac just shrugged. “Just because I’m good at my job doesn’t mean that Enjolras listens to me all of the time.” He reached out to Jehan and sighed when the other man backed away. “Look, Enjolras made his decision. It’s his life, and I will respect his choice, as always. My job in that regard is done. I advised Enjolras not to do it, but now my job is to handle it since he is.” He reached out again and this time Jehan did not shy away, letting him grab Jehan’s hand in both of his own. “Please don’t let this come between us. I know that this is hard for you, but it really is just my job. I like Grantaire, really I do.”

Jehan squeezed his hand in reassurance, but the frown did not lift from his face. “I don’t know if I can separate the two like you can. Not just because Grantaire is my friend, though that’s a big part of it, but…you can’t expect someone to make rational decisions when it comes to love, can you?”

“I didn’t ask Enjolras to make a rational decision when it came to love. I asked him to make a rational decision when it came to his career.”

Frowning even deeper, Jehan pulled his hand away. “But that’s just it – I can’t separate the two in my mind. To you, this is just about his career, but what about him and Grantaire? What about the potential they have together?”

Courfeyrac shrugged again. “I look at the present and see what is. You look at the future and see what could be. There is a reason why you are a poet and romantic, Jehan, and I am a businessman.”

“But you look at the future, too, or else you wouldn’t have been worried about Grantaire and Enjolras.”

“Yes, I looked at what could be,” snapped Courfeyrac, unable to keep his temper in check. “I looked at all the ways in which Enjolras’s career could implode from this, all the ways that Grantaire could fuck him over and screw him up and ruin everything that we’ve spent the last six years working for. I saw all of these things that could be – but I still let him choose.”

Jehan looked at him for a moment, a sudden fierceness in his eyes. Rather suddenly, he smiled slightly and recited,

“If you can keep your head when all about you  
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;  
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,  
But make allowance for their doubting too.”

Pulling Courfeyrac into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the wind out of him, Jehan murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Courfeyrac looked down at him, utterly bemused. “Um, it’s fine?” he said, unsure of what had happened in the past thirty seconds.

“No, it’s not fine. I accused you of not caring, but I should have realized that you care more than anyone because you have to balance caring about Enjolras personally with caring for him professionally.”

“Well, that’s really more Combeferre’s job than mine,” muttered Courfeyrac into Jehan’s hair. “And I don’t think you actually accused me of not caring out loud, though I like to think myself savvy enough to have seen it between the lines. But you’re right, I do care, Jehan. I care about Enjolras and I care about his career, but right now, in this moment, I care mostly about you, and about us.” He leaned back to search Jehan’s eyes. “Are we ok?”

Jehan stretched up to plant a gentle kiss on Courfeyrac’s lips. “We are more than ok.”

Courfeyrac smiled and laced his fingers with Jehan’s. “Why the sudden change in attitude, or realization, or whatever you want to call it?”

Smiling up at him, Jehan began tugging Courfeyrac toward the door. “Because when all is said and done, you let him choose. And that’s all that really matters.”

Courfeyrac followed after Jehan, looking around as they neared the exit. “What about dinner—?” he asked half-heartedly.

Jehan looked back at him with a glint in his eyes that made Courfeyrac forget that he had ever been hungry in the first place. “I think dinner can wait.”

* * *

 

Later, as they lay curled around each other in Courfeyrac’s obscenely large bed, Jehan’s hand lightly skimming Courfeyrac’s still-heaving chest, Jehan asked off-handedly, “You heard that Enjolras was taking Grantaire to California for the MTV Movie Awards, right?”

Judging by the string of obscenities that Courfeyrac uttered as he shot out of bed and lunged at his cell phone, he evidently had not.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac stood in front of the steps of the Learjet, arms crossed and scowl on his face. Not even Jehan snuggling his face into Courfeyrac’s shoulder alleviated the glare he was giving Grantaire and Enjolras as the crossed the tarmac, hand in hand.

“I know you think this is a bad idea,” started Enjolras, but Courfeyrac shook his head quickly.

“No, it doesn’t matter what I think.” His clipped tone was neutral, betrayed only by his stormy expression. “What matters is that you pay attention – both of you.” Grantaire’s eyes met his, briefly, before turning to look up at Enjolras. “Grantaire, I want you to avoid the red carpet. No photos, no interviews. There’ll be enough staff people there that you can sneak in the back without anyone noticing. During the awards ceremony itself, you’ll be sitting next to each other. Try not to be obviously affectionate; you never know when the camera is going to cut to Enjolras. That means no touching, kissing, hand-holding, whatever.”

Grantaire frowned. “Why—” he started, but Courfeyrac cut him off with a level stare.

“Are you ready to tell the world about your relationship?”

Half-smiling, Grantaire looked up at Enjolras. “What relationship? I barely know the guy.”

Courfeyrac’s face tightened, but Enjolras quelled whatever he might’ve said by dropping a quick kiss on Grantaire’s lips. “Be serious,” he whispered.

Grantaire squeezed his hand. “I am wild.” Regardless, he turned back to Courfeyrac, looking slightly chastised. “I’m sorry. No, I’m not ready to tell the world about this relationship, if you can call it that. I wasn’t really joking before. I mean, we’ve only just met, and this…” He looked down at his hand, firmly entwined with Enjolras’s. “This is still really new to me.”

Enjolras grinned at him and kissed him again, while Jehan practically swooned next to Courfeyrac. Grimacing, Courfeyrac cleared his throat loudly. “Right, well, it may be new to you, but this isn’t my first rodeo. So you’ll do what I said. Got it?”

“We got it, Courf,” said Enjolras quickly, pulling away from Grantaire. “Now would you relax? We’ll be fine!”

After giving Jehan a quick one-armed hug, Grantaire bounded up the stairs. Enjolras started to follow him, but Courfeyrac reached out to grab his arm.

“I am serious, Enjolras,” he said in undertone. “I respect your choice in this matter, but there’s more to this than that. Exposing Grantaire to the kind of scrutiny this could raise…are you confident enough that whatever you two have can handle it? That he can handle it?”

Enjolras looked at him and realized that Courfeyrac wasn’t asking out of concern for his career, but out of concern for him, and, bizarrely, for the raven-haired man inside the plane. “I don’t know,” said Enjolras honestly. “But at the same time, this is what my life is like, and we’re going to have to see if we can withstand this one way or another, aren’t we? I’m tired of hiding, Courf.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “I know, Enj. Just…be careful, alright?” He paused, then a less serious expression stole over his face. “Because if you fuck up and I have to fly out to California to deal with it, thus ruining my weekend with Jehan, I will personally murder you.”

Rolling his eyes, Enjolras huffed, “I see you’ve been taking lessons in hyperbole from your poet.” His face softened. “Thank you. Enjoy your weekend.” He waved at Jehan, who was beaming at him. “Be gentle with him, Jehan.”

Jehan’s beam turned wicked. “I have little intention of that.”

With a groan, Enjolras jogged up the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “I so did not need to know that.”  He paused at the top to wave once more to Courfeyrac and Jehan, then ducked into the plane.

Grantaire was sprawled across the seats, glass of some kind of booze already in hand. His eyes were wide. “This is like a limo. But an airplane. Like a limo for the sky.”

Chuckling, Enjolras sat down next to him and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Are you drunk already?” he asked, mostly teasing.

He was surprised when Grantaire blushed. “Only a little.”

The plane taking off cut off their conversation for a few moments, and when they were finally in the air, Enjolras turned so that he was facing Grantaire, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “You pregamed flying to California with me?” he asked, his voice mild.

“Not like that,” Grantaire said quickly, scrambling to sit up. “Look, I just…I was nervous. And I’ve never really flown before, you know? And…it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He looked down and swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I told you I’m a fuck up.” Grantaire’s voice was light, but there was a nervousness to it, as though Enjolras might actually believe this fact and change his mind.

After a moment, he looked up, and Enjolras was still looking at him with mild curiosity on his face. “Is this something you do often?” When Grantaire just looked confused, Enjolras elaborated, “Drinking before events, drinking to cope with nerves? Or other feelings?”

Grantaire let out a short bark of a laugh. “I drink to cope with life, so I suppose you could say it’s something that I do often.” He cocked his head slightly, trying to not look away from Enjolras. “Is that a problem?”

“You tell me.”

Enjolras’s words were quiet, almost gentle, but Grantaire still flushed and looked away. “It’s not a problem,” he said, tentatively, as if he was convincing himself. He clarified, “I can handle it.” Enjolras just looked at him and Grantaire bit his lip, wishing that Enjolras would look anywhere but at him. “It’s not a problem!” he burst out suddenly. “It’s so much better than what the alternatives could be.”

Once again Enjolras responded only with a quiet question. “What alternatives?”

“A handful of pills, a razor across my wrist, a homemade noose from my belt.” Grantaire’s voice was light, almost airy, belied only by the sudden tightening in his face.

In an almost unconscious response, Enjolras pulled Grantaire closer. Then there was a brief pause as Enjolras appeared to be trying to decide how to word something. In the end, he simply asked, “You’ve thought about this a lot?”

Grantaire’s eyes flew to his and he bit his lip. “Not lately. Definitely not since meeting you. But, in the past? Yes.” He swallowed, and added, almost despairingly, repeating himself from earlier, “I told you I was fucked up.”

“Should I be doing something? Helping somehow?” Enjolras’s voice was careful, controlled, and Grantaire longed to know what was running through the other man’s head.

Instead, he leaned against him and sighed. “No. Nothing you can really do. Trust me – Jehan’s tried a million times.”

Enjolras was tracing absentminded patterns against Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire closed his eyes because it felt so good. “I’d like to think that I have some enticements that Jehan doesn’t.”

Grantaire heard the smile in Enjolras’s voice and smiled in return, keeping his eyes closed. “Oh, you have a great many enticements.” He paused and then added, in undertone, “Alcohol is my last real vice, or at least my last consistent vice, and I’m afraid it would take more than even you to do anything about it.”

“I could still try, if you wanted me to.” The quiet promise in Enjolras’s voice nearly broke Grantaire’s heart. “Try to help, or try to fix—”

Shoving away from Enjolras roughly, Grantaire snapped, “I don’t need you to fix me. I’m not broken.”

Enjolras looked at him calmly, far calmer than Grantaire would have expected. “I never said that you were.”

Grantaire stood abruptly, a little unsteady, as he had forgotten they were on a moving object, and ran a hand through his hair as he began to pace. “You don’t know how many people have tried to fix me,” he said in a low voice. “They have all failed. And for most of them, it was too much to handle. And I…” He stopped in his pacing to turn back to Enjolras, his eyes pleading for understanding. “I wouldn’t want to do that to you, Apollo. Wouldn’t want you to fail at anything, especially on my account.”

“I resent the implication that I would fail,” said Enjolras wryly.

Smiling sadly at him, Grantaire said softly, “I fear that even in this, Apollo, you are wholly fallible.”

Still, he went back over to Enjolras and curled up against him, laying his head on Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras pressed a kiss to his temple. “All the same,” Enjolras whispered, “all you ever need do is ask, and I will help you however I can.”

“I know.” A beat, then Grantaire added, so softly Enjolras almost couldn’t hear him, “Which is precisely why I would never ask.”

They stayed that way, in comfortable silence, for a few minutes, Enjolras gently playing with Grantaire’s hair. Grantaire sat up eventually. “Not to change the subject,” he said, wry smile lifting his lips for a moment, “but I just realized I have no idea what I’m supposed to be wearing to this awards thing. And I realize it’s a bit late for me to be worried now, but…”

Enjolras laughed aloud. “Don’t worry about it; I’ve already rented a suit for you. It’s waiting at the hotel.” Grantaire gave him a bewildered look and Enjolras chuckled. “Jehan knew your measurements and told Courf, who called in the rental.”

If anything, Grantaire looked even more confused. “Courfeyrac called it in?” he asked quietly. “Why would he do that?”

Enjolras squeezed his hand, keeping his voice purposefully light. “Well, for starters, he knows how to get the best deals…”

“You know what I mean.” Grantaire’s voice was small. “Courfeyrac hates me. He didn’t want me to come out here with you.”

Reaching out to cup Grantaire’s cheek, Enjolras gave him a gentle kiss. “Courfeyrac does not hate you. He actually likes you.”

Grantaire’s hands rested against Enjolras’s shoulders, not quite pushing him away. “But he doesn’t want me to be here with you,” he reminded him.

“Of course he doesn’t. He’s my agent. I pay him to be concerned about this kind of thing.” Looking down at the still-confused look on Grantaire’s face, Enjolras said gently, “It’s just his job. He’s very, very good at keeping the personal and the private separate, possibly too good. I promise you that any concerns he has about us have absolutely nothing to do with how he feels about you as a person. Besides which, he’s dating Jehan, so he has to like you for Jehan’s sake.”

Grantaire smiled at that. “Yeah, Jehan would kick his ass otherwise. Prouvaire’s an absolute fucking beast when you piss him off. One day a few years ago when I was in a really bad mood I told him his hydrangeas looked stupid and he decked me in the face.”

Laughing again, Enjolras nodded seriously, his eyes twinkling. “I can definitely see that.”

Grantaire grinned at Enjolras, then sat back, tucking one leg underneath himself. “Pirates or ninjas?”

“What?” asked Enjolras with a laugh at the sudden subject change.

“Pirates or ninjas?” Grantaire repeated. When Enjolras just raised an eyebrow, Grantaire rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, right? Well, I’ve already rather embarrassingly told you an awful lot about myself – more than probably anyone besides Jehan knows – so we may as well get into the fun stuff, right?”

Grinning as if against his will, Enjolras teased, “And you consider pirates and ninjas the good stuff?”

Grantaire winked at him. “Well, it could raise the possibility of some very interesting roleplay ideas…”

Enjolras blushed and coughed to try and cover it up. “Um, ninjas. Definitely. Much more honorable a lifestyle.”

“Typical,” sighed Grantaire. “There goes _that_ kink out the window.” He looked at Enjolras expectantly. “It’s your turn to ask.”

Enjolras bit his lip and frowned. “Um, I don’t know…total liberty or total equality?”

Grantaire snorted. “Wow, you’re _terrible_ at this game. “

“Well, what kinds of questions am I supposed to be asking then?” frowned Enjolras, sounding defensive.

Grantaire smiled. “Well, you can go the route of finding out details about someone’s personality – like, Lady Gaga or Madonna?”

“Madonna,” said Enjolras instantly. “So, like, Beyoncé or Britney?”

Chuckling, Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s hand. “Precisely. Now you’ve got the hang of it. Beyoncé, by the by. Sasha Fierce for the win. You could also ask about favorites, like…what’s your favorite sex position?”

Enjolras laughed at the way Grantaire was waggling his eyebrows at him, though he also blushed at the question. “I don’t suppose I can pass, can I?” he sighed. “Um, I don’t know…normal?”

Grantaire spit out the sip he had just taken and couldn’t speak for five minutes because he was laughing too hard. “Oh, God,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “Normal. You kill me, Apollo.” He carried on chuckling for a minute or so longer before flashing Enjolras a wicked smile. “Well, if normal is your favorite, I look forward to expanding your horizons.”

Smiling, Enjolras pulled Grantaire closer to him and rested his head contentedly on top of the dark-haired man’s inky curls. “I look forward to it, too.”

* * *

 

Grantaire lurked unobtrusively in the entrance to the theatre where the awards show was being hosted. He had taken Courfeyrac’s commandment to heart and snuck around the back so that none of the rabid media members on the red carpet could catch a glimpse of him and Enjolras together.

Still, he couldn’t help but watch Enjolras. He had watched these red carpet pre-shows almost hungrily in the past, waiting for a glimpse of Enjolras, but now that he saw all that actually went into it, he almost felt bad for the man. Enjolras – and the other burgeoning celebs on the carpet – were moved like cattle across the red carpet, occasionally stopping for questions from reporters, always standing and smiling perfectly. Just a few short days ago, Grantaire would have given anything to see more of Enjolras on the red carpet; now, watching the flashbulbs go off in his face and the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes when asked for another interview, Grantaire felt almost guilty.

And it amazed him completely, because when Enjolras finished on the red carpet and waded through the sea of people to come stand next to him, he still managed to put on a genuine – if admittedly tired – smile. “You ready to go inside?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” said Grantaire, nudging him with one elbow while keeping his hands in his pockets, not wanting to break any of Courfeyrac’s rules. In undertone, he added, “I know I said it before, but you look ridiculously good right now.”

Enjolras grinned, keeping his eyes focused over Grantaire’s head so that, to a casual observer, he was smiling at someone in the distance. “You look pretty sharp yourself.”

Grantaire made a face. “Mine doesn’t fit me nearly as well as yours does you.”

Leading the way inside, Enjolras said over his shoulder, “It’s amazing what a custom-made suit can do.”

“Just rub your wealth in my face some more, why don’t you?” teased Grantaire as they found their seats.

Enjolras grinned at him, relaxing much more now that they were inside the building. “I mean, you can’t forget the fact that I’m given a lot of things for free. One of the perks of celebrity, you know?” He caught the eye of someone across the room and waved, then turned back to Grantaire. “Are you alright here for a few minutes? I want to say ‘hi’ to someone.”

“Uh, sure,” said Grantaire, sitting precariously in the seat Enjolras had indicated was his. “I’ll just sit here and try not to hyperventilate at the sheer number of celebrities currently sharing oxygen with me.”

Smiling, Enjolras gripped Grantaire’s shoulder in what to an observer would have seemed platonic, almost brotherly, but Grantaire saw the glint in his eyes, and it took all of Grantaire’s effort not to lean into Enjolras’s touch. “That’s my boy,” said Enjolras softly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

A minute stretched into twenty as Enjolras made the rounds, but Grantaire did not really mind. He was far too busy people-watching. He wished that he had one of his sketchpads with him; he would’ve loved to document some of what he saw. As it was, Enjolras barely managed to get back to Grantaire’s side before the show began.

As the ceremony dragged on – Enjolras and Jennifer, who had played Elphaba opposite him in _Wicked_ , did not win for best kiss – Grantaire had to resort to practically sitting on his hands to try and stop himself from touching Enjolras. He shrank down in his seat, wishing to be anywhere but here, where he could touch Enjolras anywhere he goddamn pleased…

That led to a…distracting train of thought that kept Grantaire mostly occupied until the Best Male Performance category came up. He looked sideways at Enjolras, who was the picture of serenity, and sighed to himself. The man was pure perfection.

Then the presenter was saying, “And the winner is…Enjolras Moreau!”, and Grantaire just stared blankly at Enjolras for a moment.

Enjolras did the only thing that felt natural. Forgetting there were cameras on him, forgetting everything about that moment, he pulled Grantaire to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, giving him deep, slow kiss.

It was a moment that lasted forever in just a few seconds, and then Enjolras pulled away, heading up onto the stage to receive his Golden Popcorn statue while Grantaire was trying very hard not to melt into his seat. He knew that people were looking at him, were whispering about him – well, Enjolras, more accurately – but he was blissfully ignorant for the moment, barely even listening as Enjolras smoothly ran through his thank-you speech, until Enjolras looked directly at him.

“And to anyone here who thinks that he or she is too screwed up to be worthy of love, just remember that you are perfect. Thank you.”

Enjolras walked off into the wings of the stage and Grantaire just sat there, ridiculously sappy look on his face.

As Enjolras’s award was one of the last of the night, the show was over before Enjolras made his way back to where Grantaire sat. To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras greeted him with another kiss, softer this time. Grantaire pulled back. “So…congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Enjolras smiled crookedly at him. “I hope you don’t mind the late addition to my acceptance speech.”

“Not in the slightest.” Enjolras bent down to kiss him once more, but Grantaire stepped away, looking guilty. “But what about what Courfeyrac said?”

Enjolras just grinned. “I think our cover’s kind of blown by this point, don’t you?”

Grantaire smiled but still pulled further away. “I promised to behave, Apollo. And even a drunken cynic like myself does not break promises lightly, especially with so much at stake.”

Enjolras huffed but acquiesced. They made their way out of the theatre, heading to some after-party that Enjolras assured Grantaire they were only going to because it was practically mandatory for the winners to attend briefly and that they wouldn’t stay long. When they arrived at the party, Enjolras asked Grantaire softly, “Do you want to stick by me and get introduced around?”

Thinking about it, Grantaire felt a knot of anxiety well in his chest at the thought of being introduced to so many people, let alone so many famous people and just shook his head mutely. Enjolras pulled him close to drop a quick kiss on top of his head. “I won’t be long, I swear.”

Grantaire made his way to the bar – an impressive spread that he probably appreciated more than most – and then secluded himself in a quiet corner where he could observe without being seen.

Enjolras seemed made for this. He was positively glowing as he shook hands all around the room, stopping to chat with some of the most famous people in Hollywood, all without batting an eye. But even though they had just met, Grantaire felt he knew Enjolras well enough to see something he had previously missed in every interview he had watched of Enjolras. The reason why Enjolras was so captivating in the crowd as he moved through it was the simple reason that Enjolras was still performing, still acting for an audience. And it occurred to Grantaire – as he finished his second drink and grabbed a third off of a passing waiter – that Grantaire had undoubtedly seen more of the real Enjolras than any other person in this room. This should have been enough to terrify him, but how could it, when it just felt so right?

He was halfway through drink number five when he realized he had lost track of Enjolras. Eyes scanning the room, he whirled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. There was Enjolras, amusement written on his face. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

To Grantaire’s surprise, Enjolras reached out and grabbed the glass from his hand. To his even greater surprise, Enjolras downed it all in one go, making a face afterward. “Ugh, that was vile.”

“No, that was bourbon. Really good bourbon, at that.” Enjolras smiled, then said something that got lost in the roar of the crowd. “What’s that? I didn’t catch it.”

Enjolras stepped close enough to Grantaire that their entire bodies were practically touching. “I said, how about we leave so I can show you my favorite sex position?” whispered Enjolras, his breath hot in Grantaire’s ear.

The breath hitched in Grantaire’s throat, and he squeaked, in a voice about two octaves higher than his normal register, “Um, yes please.”

Enjolras winked and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the exit. Grantaire followed willingly, huge smile on his face. Flashbulbs went off as they left the party together, but neither man seemed to care. Once they were safely ensconced in the limo, Enjolras dropped any pretense of staying away from Grantaire, practically straddling him as they kissed passionately, full of tongues and teeth and Grantaire found he couldn’t remember much else that had happened except that at some point he made a small whimpering noise that should have been embarrassing, but since he made it more or less into Enjolras’s mouth he couldn’t bring himself to care too much.

In fact, the only thing that Grantaire could bring himself to care about at that moment was the sheer fact that this was happening at all. He could barely bring himself to believe it, that he was here with Enjolras. That it was Enjolras’s hands tangled in his hair, Enjolras’s mouth on his own, Enjolras’s tongue probing his mouth, Enjolras’s hard-on pressing against his through their clothes…

Grantaire could not help but grin against Enjolras’s lips at that one.

“Is this real?” he whispered to Enjolras as the blond man moved his lips from Grantaire’s mouth to trail kisses along Grantaire’s jaw and neck.

Enjolras looked up. “Feels pretty real to me,” he said, an almost innocent smile on his face. He looked perfectly angelic in that moment, and then instantly ruined the image by purposely rolling his hips toward Grantaire.

Grantaire bit off a groan. “And to think, not too long ago you were the one telling me to be serious.”

Smiling, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand a pressed a kiss to his palm. “This is real.” He placed Grantaire’s hand on his chest. “Feel my heart beat. That is real. And this…” Leaning in, he kissed Grantaire, slowly and deeply. “This is definitely real.”

“I just can’t help but feel like this is some kind of dream that I’m just going to wake up from.”

Enjolras took both Grantaire’s wrists and pinned them lightly to the seat. “You’re not going anywhere.” He leaned in to kiss him when the limo pulled to a stop. Enjolras looked around. “Well, correction, you’re coming with me up to the hotel room. But _then_ you’re not going anywhere.”

In the elevator, Enjolras’s hands strayed all over Grantaire’s sides, and Grantaire bit into Enjolras’s shoulder to keep from moaning aloud. Suddenly he stiffened, and Enjolras pulled back, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

A grin broke out on Grantaire’s face, and to Enjolras’s surprise, he giggled. “Courfeyrac is going to murder you.”

Enjolras grinned as well, a speculative gaze in his eyes. “Well,” he said, leaning back in to press a firm kiss to Grantaire’s lips, “He can try. But…” His lips slid to Grantaire’s ear, and Grantaire groaned as Enjolras sucked languidly on his earlobe. “He’ll have to find me first. And since I have little intention of leaving this hotel for the foreseeable future…”

Grantaire’s laughter was cut off by Enjolras’s lips on his own once more as they staggered from the elevator to their hotel room. A fumble at the door, then they were inside. The hotel hallway was quiet for a moment, then the door opened just wide enough for an arm to reach out and fix the “Do Not Disturb” sign to the door handle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan's quote is from "If" by Rudyard Kipling.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's commented/kudo'd/bookmarked, etc. thus far (especially those who commented last chapter basically just to relieve my neurosis)!


	6. Act I, Scene 5 - "Peron's Latest Flame"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I…don’t even know what happened with this chapter. It completely got away from me. I'm sorry.
> 
> Anyway, next chapter will undoubtedly be short, especially when compared to this behemoth. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies as always. One day I will actually get someone to Beta this for me so I can blame mistakes on them, but alas, that is not this day.

Act I, Scene 5 _– “_ Peron’s Latest Flame _” – Evita_

“ _He should get into his head_  
 _He should not get out of bed_  
 _He should know that he’s not paid_  
 _To be loud but to be laid_  
  
 _Things have reached a pretty pass_  
 _When someone pretty lower-class_  
 _Graceless and vulgar, uninspired_  
 _Can be accepted and admired_ ”

 

Enjolras had switched his phone to silent the night before but he knew he probably had a good fifty voicemails, not to mention hundreds of texts and thousands of emails. And he knew that he should be addressing at least the most urgent ones – from Courf and Ferre, while sending all of Cosette’s lovey-dovey ones straight to the trash – but Grantaire will still sleeping soundly, head on Enjolras’s chest, and it felt far too good to ruin for something as trivial as missed phone calls.

Instead, he pulled Grantaire even closer and pressed a soft kiss to the man’s brow. Grantaire opened his eyes slowly, blinking blearily at Enjolras. Then he smiled, sweetly and sleepily. “Hey,” he whispered, in a voice rough with sleep.

“Hey,” Enjolras responded, smiling slightly. “How’d you sleep?”

Grantaire smirked and kissed Enjolras’s bare chest. “Since I was sleeping next to you, I could hardly have slept badly, right?”

Enjolras just laughed and sat up, smiling at the way Grantaire looked sad to have lost his pillow. “Unfortunately, it _is_ time to get up. We have to be to the airport in three hours.”

Grinning suggestively, Grantaire said wheedlingly, “We can do an awful lot in three hours…”

Though Enjolras rolled his eyes, he also leaned in and kissed Grantaire. “How about we save that for the plane ride, hm?” Then he wrinkled his nose. “Ugh I have terrible morning breath, sorry.”

Grantaire pulled Enjolras back down, kissing him again. “I don’t care.”

Enjolras let Grantaire kiss him for a good five minutes before he finally stopped him. “Ok, I really do have to brush my teeth now.”

Rolling on to his back, Grantaire called after Enjolras, “Control freak.”

Enjolras just laughed from the bathroom. “Damn straight, and if last night was any indication, you _really_ like the fact that I am.” He heard Grantaire chuckle and then the sound of the TV turning on as Grantaire began to flip through the hotel-provided channels. Enjolras couldn’t help grinning around his toothbrush at his reflection in the mirror. His curls were completely frizzy, his eyes wide and too bright, hickeys dotted his neck and chest, and he was fairly certain that there were fingernail scratches down his back. He had never felt happier.

All of this was ruined by Grantaire’s frantic shout from the bedroom. “Holy shit, Enj, you have to come see this!”

At the panic in Grantaire’s voice, Enjolras practically sprinted out of the bathroom. He looked from Grantaire’s stricken expression to the TV, where the words “Enjolras Moreau: BEST KISS?” were still on the screen. “Oh,” said Enjolras in a small voice, sinking down on to the bed next to Grantaire, ignoring the toothbrush still clenched in his hand.

The TV reporter on whatever show they were watching was saying excitedly, “Enjolras Moreau of _Wicked_ fame may not have won the best kiss category at last night’s MTV Movie Awards, but he certainly had the best kiss of the evening, locking lips with a dark-haired mystery man after winning best male performance.”

The show cut to footage of Enjolras kissing Grantaire from the night before as the reporter continued, “Very little is known about this mystery man. Enjolras Moreau publicly came out as bisexual a few years ago but has kept a fairly low profile since. This is the first time that Enjolras has been seen in public with this man, but the internet is already abuzz with questions of who Enjolras’s newest flame could be.”

Enjolras wordlessly reached over Grantaire to grab his cellphone from the side table. He turned it on and winced as the voicemails and messages started flooding in. “Shit,” he murmured under his breath.

Grantaire looked over at him worriedly. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Enjolras, looking up from his phone and giving his ‘dark-haired mystery man’ a smile. “We knew this was going to be a story, I just didn’t anticipate that it would be this big of a story. I wasn’t expecting national news.” He looked back down at his phone. “We may have to leave even earlier for the airport, depending on how big of a deal Courfeyrac thinks this is.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, letting the droning from the newscasters on TV wash over them both, until— “This just in: we’ve learned exclusively that the man seen here locking lips with Enjolras Moreau at last night’s MTV Movie Awards is Grantaire Durand, a 24-year-old artist from New York City. Grantaire Durand’s connection to Enjolras Moreau is still unknown at this time, but we will keep you posted throughout the day as we learn more.”

Grantaire stared at the TV, all blood draining from his face. “They know my name,” he whispered. “How in the hell do they know my name?”

Enjolras did not respond; instead, he typed a number into his phone. “Combeferre? Yeah, we’re going to need an earlier flight time out of here. As soon as possible.”

* * *

 

Needless to say, the plane ride back to New York was quiet. For the most part, Grantaire lay against Enjolras with his eyes closed while Enjolras rubbed soothing circles on his back, all the while shooting him worried glances. Enjolras would have dearly loved to know what was going through Grantaire’s head, but Grantaire was far more content to drink glass after glass of alcohol than talk about what he was currently feeling.

When they deplaned, Feuilly was waiting with the car. He looked at Grantaire, who was thoroughly intoxicated at this point, and shot a concerned look at Enjolras, who just shook his head wordlessly as he helped Grantaire into the car. Feuilly grabbed Enjolras’s arm before he climbed into the car after Grantaire. “Here,” said Feuilly in undertones, passing Enjolras a printout of an online article. “Courfeyrac thought you should see this sooner than later.”

Enjolras glanced down at it quickly, then went completely still, his body tense with fury. The headline of the article – which hailed from a Hollywood gossip blog – read, “Best Kiss? More like Biggest Mistake!”, while the article was a scathing and detailed layout of all Grantaire’s faults. He scanned it as quickly as he was able, heart dropping with each caustic detail printed on the page. It listed things that Enjolras mostly already knew – a notable exception being a stint in foster care when Grantaire was in high school, and a near month-long stay in the hospital when he was 21 that Enjolras filed in his memory to ask Grantaire about later – but it was somehow worse seeing them bulleted in black and white on the page than when Grantaire casually mentioned them.

It was the last paragraph that really got to him, though: “Enjolras Moreau has been Hollywood and Broadway’s Golden Boy for long enough that we’re happy to see him have a little fun. We just wish he had chosen someone more worthy of his affections.”

He didn’t even notice that he had crushed the paper in his hands until Feuilly said nervously, “Enjolras?”

Feuilly flinched when Enjolras’s eyes flashed over to his. Enjolras stared at him for a long moment, hand still crushing the paper in his fist, breath hissing between clenched teeth. Then Enjolras visibly – and forcibly – relaxed, straightening and pocketing the paper, his eyes suddenly blank. “Say nothing of this to Grantaire.”

* * *

 

Enjolras and Grantaire went back to Enjolras’s apartment mainly because Grantaire was in no state to go to his place by himself and Enjolras was more concerned than ever about security. Luckily, no paparazzi had apparently discovered where he lived yet (or, perhaps more accurately, previously hadn’t cared enough about him to concern themselves with where he lived, though he suspected this might change now and made a mental note to talk to Bahorel about the building’s security arrangements). When they arrived, Feuilly helped Enjolras get Grantaire up the stairs (the dark-haired man was basically passed out by that point), then took Bahorel and left, leaving Enjolras alone with Grantaire, who was curled up on the couch.

Running a hand through his hair, Enjolras peered down at Grantaire and, determining that the other man wasn’t moving anytime soon, padded into the kitchen where he put some coffee on. His phone was still blowing up with messages, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre were both giving him space and trying to handle things as best as they could from their end. It frustrated Enjolras to no end that there was literally nothing that he could do to stop the absurd media feeding-frenzy that was currently underway, save try and shield Grantaire from the brunt of it.

He looked over at Grantaire, his expression troubled, then sighed. For the moment, there was nothing he could do, and he would just have to accept that. Somehow.

Though the coffee was already half-brewed, Enjolras decided he would rather shower, since he had gotten no chance to do so that morning, and since the smell of Grantaire’s liquor clung to him like bad cologne.

Taking a longer shower than he normally allowed himself – conscious as he always was of the damaging effects that wasted water can have on the ecosystem – he spent the next twenty minutes trying to force the scalding water to work the knots of tension out of his neck and shoulders. It was to no avail, and he stepped out of the shower feeling no more relaxed than before.

Any tension that he may have eased away came back on full force when he saw Grantaire sitting on his couch, familiar-looking crumpled piece of paper in his hands. Enjolras felt his heart plummet when he saw what the piece of paper was, and his mouth felt suddenly dry. Grantaire looked up at him, expressionless. “What’s this?” There was a flinty quality in Grantaire’s voice that Enjolras hadn’t heard before.

Enjolras rubbed his forehead tiredly. “It’s nothing. Really. Just one person’s stupid opinion.” He stepped towards Grantaire. “You shouldn’t have read it. I didn’t want you to read it.”

“Why? Because you think I’m too fragile to handle what someone has to say about me?” Grantaire laughed, but there was no humor to it, and his eyes blazed with an unspoken emotion. “I’d maybe be insulted by what this person said if it wasn’t all true.”

Frowning, Enjolras crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I can’t vouch for the veracity of all it says, but the insinuation it makes is definitely not true.

Grantaire just smiled at him, with smile that didn’t reach his eyes, that didn’t match the dull flush of the alcohol on his cheeks. “Really? When the facts are objectively laid out, even you have to agree that I’m completely wrong for you. Or you’re completely wrong for me. It’s hard to tell them apart at this point. The point remains the same – we aren’t going to work out.”

Enjolras breathed out heavily through his nose, counting to ten in his head before responding. “You’re drunk, Grantaire,” he said flatly. “And you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.” Grantaire’s voice was harsh, his eyes glittering with unspoken emotion. “This is my normal state of being, dear Apollo, so don’t you dare tell me that because I’m drunk I don’t know what I’m talking about.” He looked at Enjolras for a long moment, his mouth twisting ruefully. “These past few days have been like something out of a dream, but maybe it was time that I came back to reality.”

Reaching out for Grantaire, Enjolras was surprised when Grantaire recoiled from him. “This is reality, Taire,” Enjolras whispered, using the nickname for the first time

Grantaire just shook his head. “No. You and I…we can never be reality. Not really.”

“Do you not want me anymore?” Enjolras tried to steel his voice, to not sound as confused and nearly broken as he felt in that moment, but was mostly unsuccessful.

For a brief moment, Grantaire’s eyes softened. “It’s not that. Trust me, I could never _not_ want you. But we’ve been deluding ourselves into thinking that this will somehow work out between us.”

Enjolras set his jaw stubbornly. “It’s hardly a delusion. It will take work, of course, but all things worth having in life take work.”

“I’m not worth you having to work on,” said Grantaire hollowly, and suddenly Enjolras understood what this was all about.

He reached out and grabbed Grantaire’s hands in his own before the other man could shy away. “You didn’t believe what that article said, did you? About you not being worthy of me? Because it’s not true, Grantaire.”

Grantaire just smiled crookedly at him. “Are you sure about that, Apollo?”

“Of course I’m sure,” said Enjolras, more honesty than he had perhaps ever felt spilling into his voice. “Grantaire, I’ve known you for less than a week and already I can tell that you’ve changed my life. I’ve never felt like this before. And it’s insanity, to be honest, because I don’t think a person can feel this much so fast, but…I do. Truly.”

The smile that Grantaire tried to give Enjolras turned into more of a wince. “All the more reason for me to bow out now, before this can turn into something more, something you have to justify. You can laugh it off if I leave now, call it a one-night stand that lasted a weekend but nothing more. People will forget about it quickly, the scandal over as quickly as it began.” Though the alcohol still slurred some of Grantaire’s words, Enjolras knew from the completely earnest expression on Grantaire’s face that he meant every word, drunk or not. “The truth of the matter, Apollo, is that I am completely unworthy of you on just about every level. And this article will not be the last to point it out. I don’t want to be a constant reminder that you can do better, that you’re just settling for me.”

Enjolras sucked a quick breath in, trying his hardest not to get frustrated with Grantaire, who he knew was hurting and scared. “I promise you, I am not just settling for you.”

“Good luck convincing the world of that.”

Clenching his jaw, Enjolras leaned forward, fire blazing in his eyes. “Goddamnit, Grantaire, why are you so concerned about what the world thinks? The only person I’m concerned about convincing is _you_.”

Grantaire didn’t even bother trying to pretend to smile. “I care about what the world thinks because your career, your life, depends on what the world thinks of you. And I would hate myself more than I do now if I ruined that for you. Because I really am not worth it.”

“Why do you think you’re not worth it?” challenged Enjolras. “There’s no hidden exceptional quality to me that somehow places me above you.”

This time, Grantaire laughed with what was almost genuine amusement. “Truly? You are Apollo come down to Earth, fierce Fiyero willing to fight and sacrifice everything. Whereas I am nothing beyond broken, fucked-up Grantaire. Hardly worth it.” He paused, looking down at the ground, trying to fight the tears welling in his eyes. “You deserve someone magnificent,” he whispered despondently. “Someone who can stand beside you as your equal. Your Elphaba, or, hell, even your Glinda. Anyone but me.”

Enjolras ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “This is exactly why actors don’t date fans,” he said exasperatedly. “You look at me and you see Fiyero, or you see one of my other characters. They’re not me, Taire. They’re not even _real_. I am not Fiyero, nor will I ever be. I am simply Enjolras, a kid from upstate who got a few lucky breaks in life. Whereas you…” He paused. “You don’t see yourself clearly in the slightest. You have come so far and struggled through so much, and that’s absolutely magnificent. Everything you have accomplished in your life deserves as many accolades – if not more – as anything I’ve ever done in mine.”

“I just don’t understand why you would want _me_ ,” said Grantaire softly, as if he hadn’t heard a word that Enjolras had said, looking away from Enjolras and twisting his hand nervously around the hem of his t-shirt. “And now the whole world is wondering the same thing. How you could want me, how you could be with someone like me when you could have anyone.” He looked over at Enjolras. “Are you even sure you want me at all?”

Enjolras looked at him levelly. “More than sure.”

“No one will believe that.” Grantaire’s voice was flat, emotionless. “I’m not even sure I believe that.” He hunched over, head in his hands. “There’s no universe in which someone like you wants someone like me.”

“Well if you’re going to act this pathetic all the time, no, of course I wouldn’t want you!” snapped Enjolras. Grantaire stared at him, eyes wide, and Enjolras winced. “Taire, that’s not what I meant—”

It was too late. Grantaire had already stood and was rushing to the door. Enjolras followed, calling after him, “Grantaire, wait!”

But Grantaire was already gone.

It was not in Enjolras’s nature to panic but after Grantaire fled from Enjolras’s apartment, it was all Enjolras could do to not do so. For perhaps the first time over the course of their relationship, Enjolras realized how little he knew about the other man. He didn’t even know where Grantaire lived, or where he would have fled to. Though the largest part of Enjolras wanted to cry, scream, pull his hair and curl into a ball on his couch, the smaller but sterner rational part told him that even if he did not know where Grantaire had gone, there was one who may know.

With trembling hands, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through until he found the contact he was looking for. “Jehan?” Enjolras tried to keep his voice as calm as possible, to not let panic creep in. “It’s Enjolras. You haven’t heard from Grantaire, have you?”

There was a brief silence before Jehan said slowly, “No, I haven’t seen him. I thought he was with you…”

Enjolras sighed at the unspoken question and rubbed his forehead. “He was with me. We…we kind of fought, a bit. And he took something I said wrong and then…well, took off.”

“He left?” Jehan’s voice was suddenly sharp. “Did he say where he was going?”

Sighing again, Enjolras started to shake his head but then remembered Jehan couldn’t see him. “No, not a word. Just left. I tried to chase after him, but he left too quickly for me to follow.” He paused, and then asked quietly, “Where do you think he went?”

Jehan’s answering sigh was world-weary and disappointed all in one go, and Enjolras couldn’t help but flush slightly with guilt and unease. “Knowing Grantaire, he headed straight to the nearest bar or liquor store, but it depends on how bad your fight was.”

“He…he may be under the impression that I don’t want him anymore,” said Enjolras hollowly.

Sucking in a sharp breath, it took several seconds before Jehan said anything. Enjolras closed his eyes, imagining that the poet was composing himself to try and stop reaming Enjolras out. “I’m really sorry, Jehan. I know how…fragile Grantaire is. He told me a lot about his past, but…” Enjolras gulped and paused, looking down at the floor. “Please don’t be angry with me for hurting him.”

Jehan was silent for a few moments longer, then muttered, “For all the sin wherewith the Face of Man/Is blacken’d, Man’s forgiveness give—and take.” Jehan took a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you, Enjolras. Grantaire can be…unpredictable, and fighting with him isn’t like fighting with anyone else, but of course you wouldn’t know that. I will look for him. I know most of his old stand-by spots. And I’ll let you know when I do find him.”

Enjolras sagged with relief against his kitchen counter. “Thank you,” he said, voice almost cracking with sincerity. “Do you want me to come help you look?”

There was a pause before Jehan said slowly, “He may not want to see you. Not right now. Not until I can…talk some sense into him.”

“Then will you apologize to him for me?”

“Of course,” said Jehan, though he added quickly, “I have to find him first, though.”

Enjolras let him go after thanking him once more, then dialed Combeferre’s number from memory. “Ferre?” he said after the other man picked up on the first ring. “I need your help.”

* * *

 

Though Jehan did know most of Grantaire’s hangouts, there was a lot of ground to cover between Enjolras’s Queens apartment and Grantaire’s studio in Alphabet City. Still, Jehan knew that this was going to be akin to one of Grantaire’s lowest moments, and when Grantaire was at his lowest, there was only one place that he could be found – the statue of Alexander Hamilton in Central Park behind the Met.

Jehan did not know when Grantaire had decided this was _his_ spot, but it was here that Jehan had found Grantaire during some of his worst moments, including the… _incident_ junior year. Thus it was to here that Jehan came, bringing with him a bottle of water for Grantaire, because…well, Grantaire was undoubtedly going to need it.

Sure enough, when Jehan rounded the corner of the path leading up to the statue, he could see Grantaire sitting against the base of it, legs straight in front of him, telltale brown-bagged bottle in the grass next to him. Jehan didn’t say anything at first, simply heaving a sigh as he settled down next to Grantaire on the grass. Grantaire looked over at him, eyes unfocused and red from crying. “Jehan,” he said slowly, his voice slurred worse than usual. “What’re you doing here?”

“Enjolras called.” Jehan looked closer at Grantaire, worry creasing his forehead. “How much have you had?”

Grantaire lifted the bottle next to him to his lips, taking a long swig. “Not nearly e-fucking-nough, obvs.” He was quiet for a moment, then asked in a dead-sounding voice, “Did he tell you what happened?”

Jehan assumed that by ‘he’, Grantaire meant Enjolras. “A little. I’d like it if you told me what happened. If you can.”

Pulling his legs up so that he could wrap his arms around them and rest his chin on his knees, Grantaire squinted up at the tree branches swaying slightly in the breeze. “S’not much to tell,” he murmured. “I don’t know what he would see in me. He…he said I’m pathetic. He doesn’t want me.” Tears began falling down Grantaire’s face. “Don’t know what I expected. He could never want me.”

He began to weep in earnest, his entire body wracked with sobs. Jehan hugged Grantaire’s shaking body close to him, letting the dark-haired man sob brokenly into his shoulder. “Oh, mon ami, I truly am sorry,” he whispered, stroking Grantaire’s hair gently. “But you know he didn’t mean it, at least not like that. He cares for you, deeply.”

“Why would he?” whispered Grantaire, voice muffled against Jehan’s sweater. “He’s right, you know – I am pathetic.”

Jehan pushed Grantaire away slowly so that Grantaire could meet his eyes. “That’s not true and you know it,” he said firmly.

Grantaire just laughed bitterly. “Really, Jehan? Pray tell, what do I have to show for me not being pathetic? I dropped out of college, I’m drunk 98% of the time, I can barely do anything without you making me do it, I’m on like ten different kinds of medication because I’m too fucked up to even function—”

“You’re also loved.” Jehan’s voice was quiet, but resolute.

Snorting, Grantaire leaned forward, head in hands. “By who? By Enjolras?”

“Yes, by Enjolras. But also by me.”

Grantaire looked at him for a brief moment before stating flatly, his voice rough from crying, “I somehow don’t think Courfeyrac would approve.”

Jehan nudged him gently. “Not like that, you idiot. But I do love you, you foolish man, and you’re so hell-bent on self-destruction that you never seem to stop and think about the fact that there _are_ people here who care about you, who hurt when you hurt.” Grantaire didn’t say anything, instead staring at the ground as if pretending not to have heard Jehan. Sighing, Jehan leaned forward. “a total stranger one black day/knocked the living hell out of me—/who found forgiveness hard because/ my(as it happened)self was he.”

Meeting Jehan’s eyes for just a moment, Grantaire muttered, “Even fucking sober I wouldn’t know what that shit meant, Jehan.”

“It means that you have to forgive yourself.” Jehan’s voice was firm as he gripped Grantaire’s shoulder. “Or at least start taking steps in that direction. Maybe you are messed up, Grantaire, but we’re all a little messed up. You have to accept that Enjolras doesn’t care for you in spite of you being broken, but _because_ you’re broken. Your brokenness is as much a part of you as anything else. Being wounded, being messed up…it’s ok to be that. If you stop fighting it and just accept it…maybe you’ll be able to forgive yourself for the fact that you are a little broken.”

An ironic smile lifted Grantaire’s lips, and suddenly he seemed very sober. “You want me to just _accept_ that I’m broken, that there’s nothing I can do to fix it? Thanks for the advice, Jehan, but you’d make the worst therapist of all time.”

Jehan met his gaze evenly. “Has anything you’ve tried actually worked to fix you, or just made you feel worse about the fact that you can’t be fixed?” Grantaire’s eyes snapped to his, then dropped to the ground as he couldn’t find words to answer Jehan truthfully. “I’m not saying this is a permanent solution, but maybe, just for now, if you can stop thinking of yourself of messed up and just accept that this is the way you are, maybe you can stop holding out on letting someone like you until you’re whole. Maybe you’ll accept that Enjolras actually likes you.”

“But why would he want someone so fucked up, Jehan?” whispered Grantaire. “When he could have anyone he wanted…”

Jehan grabbed Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it. “But he wants you. Fucked up and all. And there doesn’t have to be a reason for it.”

Grantaire was silent for several minutes, staring out at the park through the tears in his eyes. Finally, he sniffed loudly and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. “You’re an asshole Prouvaire. You should have just let me drink myself to death. It’d be easier for everyone involved.”

Despite Grantaire’s words, Jehan smiled in relief, knowing that despite his tone, this meant Grantaire was almost back to normal. “So what are you going to do?” he prompted.

Shrugging, Grantaire frowned. “Looks like I have to find that blond dipshit and apologize. Assuming that after all this he really does still want me.”

“I wouldn’t hold out hope that he doesn’t,” Jehan said, almost cheerfully. “He seems pretty far gone.”

“Well, shit,” sighed Grantaire, though a smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. “I guess an apology actually is in order.” He looked over at Jehan. “I don’t suppose you’ve got something in your arsenal of poems that I can use?”

Jehan smiled at him. “I might have something for you. But first we need to let you sober up a bit. In the meantime, you’re going to give me every sordid detail from this weekend, because if the gossip magazines are to be believed, you’ve been behaving very scandalously. Start with the kiss – I saw it on TV, of course, but I want to know _everything_.”

* * *

 

Combeferre showed up half an hour after Enjolras called him, bringing two large coffees with him and sitting down on Enjolras’s couch without asking a single question, only looking at Enjolras expectantly. Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, took a sip of coffee, and told Combeferre everything. From what Grantaire had revealed about his past, to their recent fight to the strange array of feelings toward Grantaire that Enjolras couldn’t even begin to parse. Throughout it all, Combeferre never said a word, just listened.

When Enjolras was finished, he sat down heavily on the couch next to Combeferre. “So?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound nearly as desperate as he felt. “What do I do now?”

“You should start by apologizing to Grantaire,” said Combeferre calmly.

Enjolras ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Did you think that I didn’t think of that? But Jehan said that he would let me know when he found Grantaire, and as he pointed out, Grantaire probably wants nothing to do with me at the moment.”

Combeferre leaned back in his seat, peering at Enjolras over his glasses. “And since when has something like that stopped you? Need I remind you that you auditioned eight separate times before you were cast as Dmitri in _Anastasia_?”

Looking down, Enjolras offered only a shrug in response. “That was different.”

“How so?” challenged Combeferre. “You have always pursued exactly what you want, and Grantaire should be no exception. Lord knows I don’t understand what there is between you too, but I’d be an idiot not to see that there’s _something_ there worth pursuing. Even if apologizing to Grantaire isn’t on the table at the moment, you should have already thought of five other things to do in the interim. Because that’s who you are; it’s what you’ve always done. You have contingency plans for contingencies for your plan B. So you tell me what you think you should be doing.”

Enjolras made a noise in the back of his throat that could almost be described as a growl. “I don’t know about _should_ , but I know that I want to go find whoever wrote this goddamn article and rip him limb from limb for publishing something so stupid.”

Almost smiling, Combeferre suggested quietly, “So why don’t you? Metaphorically, at least?”

“What do you mean?” asked Enjolras, frowning.

Combeferre leaned forward, his eyes intense. “I mean, you have power in this business now. You have pull. People come out to movies and shows just to see _you_. Use that. Go on some talk show and tell the media to shut up. Tell your fans not to support anyone that says this kind of stuff about you. Use what you’ve got to change the discourse.”

Though Enjolras still frowned, it actually made a lot of sense. He did have an obscene amount of fans (including an incredibly dedicated online fanbase, who called themselves – ridiculously, in Enjolras’s opinion – “Enjy’s Angels”), and that amount of market share lost to a publication could be disastrous. “That…that could work,” said Enjolras slowly. “But that means…”

“I know,” said Combeferre with a sympathetic smile. “It means we’re going to have to call Courfeyrac.”

* * *

 

To his credit, the first thing Courfeyrac did upon seeing Enjolras was not to murder him, despite his previous threats to do so. He didn’t even yell. Instead, he gave Enjolras a raised eyebrow and a disappointed expression, which, coming from Courfeyrac, was even worse than yelling. And of course, he couldn’t resist saying to Enjolras, “I told you so.”

“I know Courf,” said Enjolras wearily, but Courfeyrac was on a roll.

“I mean, it’s not bad enough that you’ve created a massive headache that everyone at Les Amis has had to deal with, but you’ve also screwed things up with Grantaire, which means that even when I go home to get away from this fiasco it’s all I’m going to hear about from my boyfriend, and—”

“He _knows_ , Courfeyrac,” snapped Combeferre, rolling his eyes.

Enjolras, however, fixed his gaze on Courfeyrac. “Jehan’s officially your boyfriend?”

Courfeyrac, who had continued talking despite Combeferre’s effort to cut him off, stopped abruptly and blushed. “Uh, yeah. We made it official this weekend.” There was a brief moment where Enjolras and Courfeyrac smiled tentatively at each other before Courfeyrac ruined it by adding, “Of course, you promptly ruined that…”

It was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes as Combeferre cut in. “This whole debacle affecting your relationship aside, let’s talk business, shall we?”

Instantly sitting down attentively on Enjolras’s armchair, Courfeyrac squared his shoulders and said, “Damage control efforts are underway as we speak. There’s been no major backlash from any of the big studios, though rumor has it that MGM is considering the exposure a bit much for the Louis XVI biopic project, so they may be shelving it for the time-being. You’ve got conference calls with a couple of directors and studio heads tomorrow just to talk things over. I think we’ll get through that fine.” He looked down at his phone, scrolling through it intently. “You’ve got about fifty different interview requests, but I’m going to have Cosette politely decline all of them, citing the fact that this is the time for privacy—”

“No.”

Courfeyrac looked up from his phone, eyes wide. “Beg pardon?”

Enjolras and Combeferre exchanging knowing smiles before Combeferre supplied, “We’ve been thinking of taking a slightly different tack.”

Leaning forward in his seat, Enjolras said heatedly, “The time to strike is now, while this is still a story. I want to establish once and for all that my relationship is and always will be an inappropriate conversation topic. Combeferre suggested – and I agree with him – that I go straight to the source (the media) and call upon my fans to enforce the ban on talking about anything Grantaire-related.”

Courfeyrac was staring at Enjolras, open-mouthed. “If…if you’re expecting me to agree to let you go on national TV and yell at the media for doing what they do by prying into your private life, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Think about it, Courf,” said Combeferre eagerly, and Enjolras leaned back, content to let Combeferre lead the argument. “Enjolras gets to demonstrate to the studios that he’s serious about preserving his image while also telling the networks to back off. Plus he’ll get a fan approval bump by acknowledging them so publicly, which definitely can’t hurt.”

“And there’s the added benefit that maybe the media can stop destroying my relationship with Grantaire,” interjected Enjolras.

By this point, Courfeyrac was practically hyperventilating, and Combeferre reached out to grab his arm. “It’ll be ok, Courf,” he said quietly. “You told me it was my job to manage this since I was the one who argued for it in the first place, and that’s what I’m trying to do. This is the best for all parties involved, including Grantaire, who at this point we can’t discount.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth was working silently, as if he was mouthing obscenities that he did not wish to vocalize. After a long moment and several clenchings and unclenchings of his jaw, Courfeyrac gave a curt nod. “Very well. But – and this is hugely important, Enj – you go on the program that I tell you to, and I approve what you say beforehand. And don’t even try giving me any of your ‘I prefer to speak extemporaneously’ bullshit, because your last extemporaneous performance is what got us in this goddamn mess.”

Though Enjolras rolled his eyes once more, he was about to acquiesce when his phone buzzed and he looked down at it, sagging in relief against the couch when he read the message. “Oh, thank God,” he murmured. “Jehan just texted that he found Grantaire.”

“Do you want to go to him?” asked Courfeyrac quietly, his voice surprisingly gentle.

Enjolras just shook his head and pocketed his phone. “No. If Jehan’s got Grantaire then he’ll be fine. This is the most important thing that I can do right now. Let’s work on the script for this interview, shall we?”

* * *

 

Grantaire leaned against the fairly nondescript building, hands balled in his pockets to try to keep from fidgeting nervously. He hadn’t seen Enjolras yet, but after a text exchange with Courfeyrac, Jehan had assured Grantaire that Enjolras would meet him in front of the selfsame building he now leaned against. Half of him was desperately hoping that Jehan was wrong, that Enjolras would not show up, while the other half could barely contain its anticipation in seeing Enjolras again, regardless of how fresh the wounds of their fight still were.

Then—there. Walking towards him was Enjolras, and the excited side of Grantaire made his stomach swoop, while the desperate side made his heart plummet. Either way, he pushed away from the building and waited for Enjolras to approach him. Enjolras looked him over once, relief evident on his face. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Grantaire kept his hands in his pockets. “So I want to apologize.”

“Grantaire—” started Enjolras, but Grantaire cut him off.

“No, I mean it. I am sorry. I was drunk and oversensitive and I overreacted without thinking about what you were saying. And I…I’m not going to pretend that it’s going to be easy, but I’m going to try to accept that we live in some bizarre alternate reality where you have feelings for me and that that’s ok. And I’m still willing to try to make…whatever this is…work. If…if you are.” He paused for breath and chanced a glance at Enjolras, whose face was stony. Gulping, he said quickly. “Uh, Jehan gave me a poem to quote, so, um…‘I scarce am fit for your great plans: yet speak to me/Say one soft word and let me part forgiven.’” Grantaire quoted the poem a little too quickly, not quite managing the proper cadence and rhythm, but hoping to keep the sentiment tangible enough for Enjolras to understand.

Enjolras just looked at him for a moment, and Grantaire’s heart sank. He half-turned, ready to slip away, when Enjolras reached out and grabbed his hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” said Enjolras, his voice soft, “except for you thinking that you should leave right now.”

Grantaire smiled tentatively up at him, and Enjolras pulled him close, wrapping him in a gentle embrace. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered against Grantaire’s hair. “So sorry to have made you doubt me, doubt us, even for a moment.”

Squeezing Enjolras’s hand, Grantaire murmured, “It’s ok. We’ll be ok. I promise.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “We really will be. I promise, too.” He paused. “Did Jehan tell you what I’m doing here?”

“Um, no,” said Grantaire, looking confused.

“Ah.” Enjolras’s answering grin was wide and a bit devilish. “Well, I’m doing an interview. And I really, really wanted you to see it.” Keeping a firm grip on Grantaire’s hand, he pulled him inside the building, where after a quick chat with the security guard at the front desk, he led Grantaire into a small waiting room. “You’ll have to wait for me here. But you can watch the interview on that monitor, ok?”

Grantaire looked at him, eyes still wide, but full of trust. “Ok.”

Enjolras smiled and kissed him softly. “I’ll be back soon, I promise. And then I’m taking you back to my place. We’ll get some Chinese takeout, watch a really crappy movie, have ridiculously loud sex—”

Cutting him off with another kiss, Grantaire grinned against Enjolras’s lips. “That sounds perfect.”

“Good.” Enjolras gave him one last kiss before slipping into the television studio. All through hair and makeup, his mind was a million miles away, thinking about what he was going to do with Grantaire that night. Once he was seated across from the interviewer, however, his mind snapped into focus, running over in his head the script that he and Courfeyrac had prepared.

The interview began and Enjolras answered the initial questions flawlessly, even returning some banter with the interviewer, who then asked, “Now, we know you have a show opening soon, but your latest performance – if we can call it that – was at the MTV Movie Awards last night. What can you tell us about the now infamous kiss you shared with Grantaire Durand?”

Enjolras hid a grin; he had the interviewer exactly where he wanted her. “There’s not much to say,” he said nonchalantly. “Everyone has seen what happened by now.”

“Well, then what can you tell us about your relationship with Mr. Durand?”

There it was – his opening. “I have just one thing to say about this, here and now,” said Enjolras, his voice completely pleasant, but backed with enough steel to overrule any objection raised to what he was about to say. “I will not say any more on this subject no matter the prying that the media tries to do. I am dating Grantaire Durand. It is far too early to say where it’s going. But I promise you one thing – if anyone goes after him the way that he was gone after today, I will go after you. He is one of the most incredible people that I have ever met, completely real and down-to-earth. He is not a celebrity. He is not famous. He is not in the limelight. The only reason why he would be is because of me, which is completely unforgivable that I am doing this to him, but he has somehow found it in himself to forgive me. But he is not, nor will he ever be, fair game in this. Come after me. Publish any story you want about me, say anything you want about me, however false it may be. But do not dare say one word about him.” All the pleasantry was gone from Enjolras’s voice, replaced by heat and anger in a low voice barely kept in control. “Do not follow him. Do not call him. Do not send paparazzi to stalk him. Because if you do, I will take every action within my power to ensure that you will never bother him again.” He paused, his eyes looking coldly at the interviewer, who just looked shocked. “I hope that’s understood.”

Without letting the interviewer say a word, Enjolras looked directly into the camera. “And to all my fans out there, firstly, thank you for being as supportive and amazing as you have been for the past few years. I ask now that you continue to support me in this. Please, do not support any publication, show, or reporter who perpetuates the idea that the life of a private citizen should be public record simply for who that person is in a relationship with. I ask that you continue to show me the wondrous respect you always have and help me keep my private life private.”

Still staring in shock at Enjolras, the interviewer quickly wrapped up the interview, and Enjolras stood as soon as it was done, unclipping his microphone. “Sorry you had to be a part of that,” he told the interviewer, reverting to his usual pleasant tone. “I do hope you understand.”

Then he turned and left, seeking Grantaire where the dark-haired man sat in the waiting room, gaze still glued to the TV showing, his eyes wide. He turned to face Enjolras when he entered the room, and stood quickly. “I saw the interview.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “And? What did you think?”

“Courfeyrac let you say all that?” Grantaire asked weakly. Enjolras just smiled. “How in the world did you convince him to do that?”

“Well,” said Enjolras, kissing Grantaire lightly on the lips, “I can be quite persuasive when I want to be.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, looking less shocked than he previously had. “Oh really?” he teased. “Is that a fact?”

Enjolras kissed him again, deeper this time. “I got you, didn’t I?” he whispered

Grabbing Enjolras’s hand in his own, Grantaire grinned up at the blond man. “Touché,” he said, returning Enjolras’s languid kiss. “Touché.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poem quotes, in order, are:  
> The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam  
> a total stranger one black day by E. E. Cummings  
> The Princess (Part 6) by Alfred Lord Tennyson
> 
> Blergh I will never be satisfied with this chapter. I feel like everyone's wildly OOC but it's too late for me to do much about it.


	7. Act I, Scene 6 - "All I Ask of You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite the unfortunate date on which I am posting this, nothing here is a joke except for how bad this is (buh-dum-CH!)
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. This chapter is a little different because I needed it to span a few weeks in order to keep up with the timeline, so I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Act I, Scene 6 – “All I Ask of You” – _Phantom of the Opera_

“ _Share each day with me_  
 _Each night, each morning_  
 _Say you love me_  
 _You know I do_  
 _Love me – that’s all I ask of you_  
 _Anywhere you go let me go too_  
 _Love me – that’s all I ask of you_ ”

The first time Grantaire said it, it had been in the throes of passion, his head thrown back across the pillow, exposing his neck, which Enjolras was busy ravishing with his lips and teeth.

He had not even realized that he had spoken the words out loud until Enjolras paused mid-bite, his entire body stilling. “Do you mean it?” he asked quietly.

Grantaire rolled his eyes and thrust his hips vulgarly, so that Enjolras had to bite his lip to keep from moaning out loud. “Now is hardly the time, Apollo,” he groaned. “Finish what you started or I’ll finish myself.”

Frowning, his eyes dark with both desire and unanswered questions, Enjolras nevertheless didn’t say another word, resuming their lovemaking until they were both gasping and spent, limbs tangled as they lay against the bed. Once they had cleaned themselves up, Enjolras rolled onto his side and looked expectantly at Grantaire. “So?”

Grantaire studiously avoided his gaze. “It…it was nothing. I didn’t mean to say it. We were in the middle of fucking. No one says anything they mean in the middle of that—other than, you know, ‘right there, oh God that feels so good.’” The joke felt weak coming out of Grantaire’s mouth and he would have blushed had he not been determinedly staring at the wall.

Enjolras’s eyes were unfathomable as he looked back at Grantaire. “Ok,” he said finally. He kissed Grantaire on the forehead and looked at him for a minute longer before turning onto his other side to sleep.

Letting his eyes roam over Enjolras’s smooth back, Grantaire sighed heavily. He couldn’t have meant it. Not really. Not yet. It was too damn soon for those three words to be uttered in any context at all. They had only been together for three weeks now, and while, granted, it had been the best three weeks of Grantaire’s life – ignoring the blip with the media that Enjolras had so incredibly and completely taken care of – it was still only _three weeks_. A person couldn’t feel this way so quickly. It just wasn’t possible.

Still, as he watched the slow and steady rise and fall of Enjolras’s back, there was a warmth in Grantaire’s chest that didn’t fully relate to the fact that he had just been deliciously fucked, and his pulse should have long since slowed by now. Instead, it only seemed to pick up pace as he examined the curve of Enjolras’s spine, thinking of the look in Enjolras’s eyes when Grantaire had said it.

Three stupid words. That was all they were. Three stupid fucking words that it was far, far too early for Grantaire to have said, let alone to have thought.

He fell asleep uneasily, and all he dreamt about that night was the look in Enjolras’s eyes.

* * *

The first time Enjolras had said it, it was a misunderstanding. A miscommunication.

Enjolras and Grantaire had gone on a double date with Jehan and Courfeyrac at Jehan’s insistence. It had been surprisingly nice, all things considered, especially since it was the first substantial amount of time that Grantaire had spent with Courfeyrac since that first night at the club opening.

Despite Enjolras’s repeated insistence that Courfeyrac didn’t dislike Grantaire, he couldn’t shake an ill feeling associated with Jehan’s cheerful boyfriend and had spent the four weeks following the MTV incident hiding from Courfeyrac. Literally, in a few cases – Courfeyrac had come over unannounced and Grantaire had hidden in Enjolras’s closet for over an hour until he had left (Enjolras, needless to say, had been torn between amusement and irritation, but amusement won out when he threw upon his closet door to find Grantaire asleep in the corner, wrapped in one of Enjolras’s ratty hoodies).

It had thus been rather reluctantly that Grantaire had agreed to this double date. In fact, it had only been at the threat of bodily harm from Jehan (all the while with a wide grin on his face, of course) that Grantaire had finally acquiesced. He clutched Enjolras’s hand all the way to the restaurant until Enjolras had huffed, “We’re just going to dinner, for Christ’s sake, would you _stop_?”

Grantaire had dropped Enjolras’s hand as if scalded. “Sorry,” he muttered, flushing.

Though Enjolras rolled his eyes, he stopped and took Grantaire’s face in between him hands. “Listen, I know you’re nervous. But you really have no need to be. Courfeyrac doesn’t and has never blamed you for anything. He is not angry with you. If anything, he’s a little upset because you’re Jehan’s best friend and he barely knows you. But since Courf is one of my best friends, and one of my oldest friends at that, he knows better than to say anything to upset you – and by association, me. So take a deep breath and try – _please_ – to calm down.”

Staring into Enjolras’s eyes, Grantaire could not help but relax. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” said Enjolras instantly, dropping a quick kiss to Grantaire’s lips. “Never apologize for how you feel. Just know that I’m always going to be here to try and make you feel better – even if that means telling you that there’s no logical basis for what you feel.”

A wry smile lit Grantaire’s face. “You realize that there’s never any logical basis for feelings, right? So telling me that there’s no logical basis for what I’m feeling isn’t going to stop me from feeling it.”

“I know that.” Enjolras’s expression had turned serious. “But I also know that explaining to you that what you’re feeling has no logical basis may help you calm down if you’re…if you need to.”

Grantaire blinked in realization that the words Enjolras spoke sounded awfully familiar. “You’ve been talking to Jehan about me.”

The words were mild and non-accusatory, but Enjolras still bit his lip and blushed. “Yes, I have. Ever since that day”—he didn’t need to specify which—“I’ve been talking to Jehan about triggers that I should be on the lookout for. He said that you can get so far wrapped up in your emotions that you give yourself an anxiety attack, and that talking to you calmly, explaining things to you, can help keep you from spiraling.”

“What else did he say?”

Enjolras smiled dryly. “That I should talk to you to find out more. And I’ve been planning on it, I promise, but…I wanted to talk to Jehan first in case I said or did something in the meantime that set you off.”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras seriously. “That is possibly the single sweetest thing that anyone has ever done for me.” He kissed Enjolras deeply, trying to encapsulate all his whirling emotions into that one kiss. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Enjolras. Everything about him in that moment was soft – his voice, his eyes, his hands which still cradled Grantaire’s face as if they held the most precious treasure in the world. Then he let Grantaire go, only to grab his hand and lace their fingers together. “Now c’mon. We’re late.”

So it was that Grantaire was significantly more relaxed than he thought he would be, and after fifteen minutes of Courfeyrac cracking jokes and heckling Enjolras, Grantaire was startled to find that he liked Courfeyrac. A lot. Courfeyrac knew all the ways to get under Enjolras’s skin, and was completely unfazed by every scowl, frown and glare that Enjolras gave him.

And he was sweet to Jehan, which made Grantaire happy. He realized guiltily that after meeting Enjolras at the club that night, he had kind of stopped paying attention to anything besides the blond man, and had barely noted Jehan and Courfeyrac’s interaction, so he was pleased to see that Courfeyrac seemed to fit well with the poet. For starters, Courfeyrac had brought Jehan flowers, which Grantaire knew was a good sign. Jehan loved flowers, and had even waxed poetic at one point about how Courfeyrac reminded him of delphinium – big-hearted, fun and light, with the dual meaning of ardent attachment.

Grantaire didn’t know anything about flowers or their meanings, but judging by the way Courfeyrac deftly tucked a flower behind Jehan’s ear and by the saccharine sweet smile Jehan gave him in return, Courfeyrac knew more than enough for the both of them.

As the evening wore on, both couples relaxed even further. Jehan abandoned his chair for Courfeyrac’s lap at some point, while Grantaire and Enjolras sat holding hands, their ankles rubbing under the table. Grantaire had looked hopefully at Enjolras when Jehan had first climbed into Courfeyrac’s lap, but a stern look from Enjolras had quashed that train of thought.

Finally, the conversation and drinks had dwindled and it was time for them to leave. Enjolras stood first, offering a hand to Grantaire to help him up, which Grantaire accepted, impish grin on his face. Not to be outdone, Courfeyrac had stood, still holding Jehan in his arms, kissing the poet deeply before setting him on his feet. “Show off,” muttered Enjolras, rolling his eyes.

Jehan ignored him, standing on his tiptoes to kiss Courfeyrac. “I love you,” said Jehan simply, gazing into Courfeyrac’s eyes.

Enjolras looked at the two incredulously. They had only been together for just about as long as Grantaire and Enjolras had been, and yet they were already at _that_ point? His brow furrowed slightly. He repeated the three words under his breath, rolling them – unfamiliar as they were – around in his mouth as if testing how they would sound.

Grantaire, standing next to Enjolras, the blond man’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, his head on Enjolras’s shoulder, felt rather than heard Enjolras mutter those three words, and stiffened. He turned his head awkwardly to look up at Enjolras. “What did you say?”

Flushing scarlet, Enjolras dropped his arm from Grantaire’s shoulder. “Nothing. I was just…uh…nothing.”

Still looking up at him, eyes wide, Grantaire asked slowly, “Did you say what I think you said?”

“No,” said Enjolras instantly, starting to panic. “That is, I don’t think so. I mean, I don’t know what you thought you heard me say, of course, but I can only imagine that if you thought you heard what I think you might’ve thought you heard, well, then, you didn’t. Hear it. Um.”

Grantaire smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, which for a moment looked suddenly, inexplicably sad. “That didn’t make a whole lot of sense, Apollo, but I think I follow what you mean, at least.”

By this point, Jehan and Courfeyrac were watching them both intently as Grantaire took a step away from Enjolras. “I should go,” said Grantaire, his voice soft.

“Grantaire, wait,” said Enjolras, mentally cursing himself as he reached out to Grantaire, who just shrugged his hand off of his shoulder.

“It’s fine,” he said quietly. “I get it. You didn’t mean…whatever it was you didn’t say. I’ll text you later, alright?”

Enjolras could do nothing besides watch helplessly as Grantaire left, feeling equally parts concerned, confused and defiant. Concerned for Grantaire, of course, who seemed hurt by Enjolras’s denial for some reason. Defiant because, well, it was too early for them to be even considering tossing that word around – it was all very well and good for Jehan and Courf, maybe, but he would not say it unless he was sure he meant it. And confused because…could he actually mean it? In spite of how early in their relationship it was?

Jehan quickly gave Courfeyrac another kiss before darting after Grantaire, calling over his shoulder, “I’ll go make sure he’s alright!” Then it was just Courfeyrac and Enjolras, standing and looking awkward.

“Sooo…” said Courfeyrac, drawing out the vowel. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Looking down at his feet, Enjolras shrugged moodily. “Do I have a choice?”

“Nope!” said Courfeyrac, far too cheerfully for Enjolras’s suddenly dark mood. “C’mon, let’s go to the bar and grab a few more drinks. No point in hurrying home now.” They went to the bar in the restaurant and ordered more drinks. Courfeyrac leaned back in his seat and gazed at Enjolras over the rim of his glass. “So. You’re at the point in your relationship where you can’t decide whether or not to say the L-word, correct?”

Enjolras scowled. “The question of saying… _that_ is not even on the table Courf. Not yet. It’s far too soon for either of us to even be considering it.”

Courfeyrac looked confused for a moment. “If the issue is not saying it, then why the…uh…I hesitate to call it a fight, but you know what I mean – earlier?”

Running his hands through his hair, Enjolras sighed in frustration. “I…well, I was just repeating what Jehan said because I was a bit incredulous that you two are at that point, to be honest, and, well, Grantaire overheard and I think for a moment thought I was saying it to him, which I wasn’t of course, because it’s far too soon, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t—” He broke off suddenly, hoping in vain that Courfeyrac wouldn’t follow where he had been going with that.

“Wait—you don’t—do you?” asked Courfeyrac excitedly.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Complete sentences, Courf. Try them – you might like them.”

Courfeyrac waved a hand impatiently. “You _do_ love him, don’t you?”

“Did I not just get through telling you that it’s far too early for that?”

Waving his hand again, Courfeyrac said, “Too early to say it was I believe what you said, but it’s not too early to _feel_ it. You don’t have any control over that, I’m afraid.”

Enjolras looked rather desperate. “But that’s just the problem – the very last thing that I want in this world is to frighten Grantaire away with my ridiculous feelings – my completely irrational feelings, I should add – so I have to maintain some modicum of control, for his sake.”

Courfeyrac was looking at him strangely, and Enjolras almost began to ask him what he was thinking when Courfeyrac smiled, almost sadly. “It’s a little too late for that, Enj, because if that’s not love right there, I don’t know what is.”

After a long silence, Enjolras asked quietly, “How do you and Jehan do it? Talk about your emotions so freely?”

“Well, for starters, you’re talking about Jehan. The man is practically a walking poetry anthology.” Courfeyrac smiled wistfully, pure adoration in his voice. “I don’t think he could hide his emotions if he tried. And me? Well, I’m also not exactly one to beat around the bush, now am I?” He leaned forward, catching Enjolras’s eye. “But you can’t compare yourself and Grantaire to us. We’re hardly the perfect couple, and you and Grantaire are just…different.” Reaching out, he patted Enjolras’s hand, the gesture full of quiet camaraderie. “You’ll find the right time to tell him how you feel. I promise. And based on his reaction earlier – I highly doubt he’ll be scared off.”

* * *

The second time Grantaire said it was a break in the comfortable routine that had been worked out between the two, a routine only marred temporarily by the restaurant incident that neither mentioned. Grantaire slept over at Enjolras’s most nights, except for the nights when Enjolras had late rehearsal (Grantaire spent those nights curled on his side on his now-unfamiliar bed, aching – rather absurdly – for the touch of the blond man he had only known for five weeks). Between spending all of his free time with Enjolras and the rest of his free time out in the city sketching tourists for money (he hadn’t painted Enjolras since meeting him; it just seemed creepy now, and besides, he actually made a fairly decent commission), it was a surprise when he returned to his apartment one afternoon to find three eviction notices waiting for him.

He knew that he should protest it, should demand answers from his landlord – because for once, he had been consistently up-to-date with his rent checks, and hadn’t done anything against the rules laid out in his lease, but Grantaire couldn’t find it in himself to do so. Instead, he ambled inside, finding a mostly-full bottle of whiskey. He swigged from it indiscriminately as he began shoving his stuff into suitcases and boxes, and it occurred to him when he was about two-thirds of the way through the bottle that he should be freaking out, or at least be concerned about where he was going to live, but instead he felt only a cold numbness spreading outward from his chest.

Which was definitely not a good sign.

It was not a numbness that would last, he knew from more experience than he could possibly explain. It was a numbness that would erupt, suddenly and without warning, into a full-fledged panic attack. He fumbled with his phone, automatically dialing Jehan’s number before remembering that Jehan had some important work meeting and thus would be able to answer.

Perspiration stood out against Grantaire’s upper lip as his eyes looked wildly around the suddenly-too-small room. He wanted to call Enjolras, but the blond man was at rehearsal, and he really couldn’t interrupt him at rehearsal, not for something as trivial as this, though on the other hand if he didn’t get this under control momentarily he was just going to have to call Enjolras and cancel their date anyway because he was going to be a fucking _wreak_ —

The number was dialed on his phone before he even knew what was happening, and he held his breath as he heard it ring on the other end. Two rings…three…then: “Grantaire?”

Enjolras sounded slightly out of breath and more than a little confused. Grantaire swallowed hard. “I…um…I…”

“Grantaire, what’s wrong?” Enjolras’s voice was sharp with worry.

Grantaire blurted out, “It’s like I can’t breathe, Enjolras, oh God.”

There was just a second’s pause before Enjolras said quickly, “I’m on my way.”

Slumping down to sit on the floor, Grantaire shook his head violently. “No, no, no, you’re at rehearsal, you can’t just leave, you’re gonna get in trouble…”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras’s voice was gentle, but there was iron in the words. “I will not get in trouble. This is an emergency and I’m on my way, ok? I promise. But for right now, I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?

Trying to focus on his breathing, on nothing more than drawing air into his lungs and then expelling it outward again, Grantaire managed a muffled sound of acknowledgement. He vaguely heard Enjolras giving directions to someone before he asked Grantaire, “Are you at your apartment, Grantaire?”

At the word ‘apartment’, Grantaire’s breathing stuttered, and his mouth went dry. He barely managed to croak “Yes” before his chest felt like it was going to explode from pain.

Enjolras, blessedly perceptive in that moment, caught on to Grantaire’s sudden agitation. “We’ll be there soon, Taire. I need you to keep breathing for me. Count your breaths for me, ok?”

He continued talking to Grantaire in this manner for the indeterminate amount of time that Grantaire sat hunched over on his floor, his voice soothing but firm as he continually focused Grantaire on his breathing, peppering his orders every so often with reassurances that he was almost there.

Grantaire had no idea how long it took for Enjolras to reach him, but when the blond man burst into Grantaire’s apartment, completely out of breath, eyes wide – and thank God Grantaire had thought to give Enjolras a spare key, because there was no way that Grantaire would’ve been able to stand to buzz him in – Grantaire took one look at Enjolras and burst into tears.

In an instant Enjolras was next to him, wrapping him in his arms. “Shhh, it’s ok,” whispered Enjolras, rubbing Grantaire’s back soothingly. “I’m here, I’m here.”

This just caused Grantaire to ball his hands in Enjolras’s t-shirt, pulling him even closer as he sobbed noisily onto Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras made no move to stop him, simply letting him cry it out while continuing to rub his back and murmuring soothingly, interjecting “Taire, I need you to breathe” every so often.

After a few minutes, Grantaire sat up, hiccupping slightly. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes. “I snotted on your shirt.”

“I don’t give a damn about my shirt, Grantaire,” said Enjolras patiently, only just managing to refrain from rolling his eyes. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Grantaire gestured vaguely at the three pieces of paper in front of him, and, careful not to jostle Grantaire too much, Enjolras picked them up and read over them, a frown creasing his forehead. After a moment, he pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s temple. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Grantaire’s voice was rough and he sounded drained. “This place was a shithole anyway. It’s just…I don’t have anywhere to live.”

Rubbing Grantaire’s back slowly, Enjolras offered tentatively, “There’s always my place.”

For a long moment, Grantaire sat frozen, as if in disbelief. “You…you want me to move in with you?” he asked finally in a strangled-sounding voice.

“Yes,” said Enjolras simply. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be like that – not if you don’t want. You can stay with me for as long or a short as you want. But really, Taire, you’re at mine half the time anyway. Don’t you think it would just make sense for you to move in and save yourself the trouble?”

Grantaire just stared at him. “I’m a terrible person to live with,” he said automatically. “Just ask Jehan. I’m loud and inconsiderate and I leave shit everywhere and I’ll get paint all over your stuff and you…you’ll get sick of me.”

Enjolras reached out and grabbed Grantaire’s hands in both of his own. “Grantaire, I’m not asking you to be my roommate,” he said gently. “If I were, maybe those would be off-putting. But I’m asking my boyfriend to live with me, and I think that carries just a bit more weight than any of your faults.”

They both just stared at each other for a second before Grantaire ducked his head, uncertainty written across his face. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Enjolras’s voice was steady, and Grantaire looked up to meet his eyes before nodding a slow yes. Enjolras grinned in response and kissed Grantaire softly, pulling the dark-haired man closer to him. “Feel better?” asked Enjolras, voice quiet in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire nodded against Enjolras’s shoulder. “Much.” He sighed contently and muttered what sounded suspiciously like those three words under his breath, adding, “You’re the best, Enj.”

Enjolras stiffened only momentarily at the words that he was unsure if he was meant to overhear or not. He chose to ignore them as if he had not heard them in the first place. “No, you’re the best…roomie.” He stood abruptly, offering a hand to Grantaire to help him up. “Now c’mon. I’ll help you finish packing.”

* * *

The second time Enjolras said it was on the opening night of his new show. With the whirlwind of everything going on in Grantaire’s life the past few weeks, he almost forgot that rehearsals would end and Enjolras would be back onstage performing. In fact, he didn’t remember until one morning when, following their customary good morning kiss, Enjolras, propped on one elbow and tracing his fingers over Grantaire’s stomach, asked off-handedly, “You’re still planning on coming to opening night with me, right?”

“Hmm?” asked Grantaire blearily, cracking one eyelid open.

Poking him lightly in the ribs, Enjolras repeated, “Opening night. For _Anastasia_. Next week. You’re coming with me, right?”

Grantaire shifted away from Enjolras’s poke. “I completely forgot about that,” he admitted. “Yeah, I’m still going with you.” He lay still for a moment. “It’s not going to be like the MTV Movie Awards, is it?”

“It’ll be smaller, with less publicity”—though not by much; Enjolras hadn’t told Grantaire that in spite of the interview he did telling the media to back off (or perhaps because of it), the media was more interested in Enjolras than ever, though thus far, none had risked his wrath by coming after Grantaire—“but it’s completely up to you if you want to pose with me for pictures and such.”

Which is how Grantaire found himself dressed in a ridiculous tux, standing with his arm wrapped around Enjolras’s waist, trying to keep a smile fixed on his face (“You will smile the entire time or I will skin you alive, I swear it,” Courfeyrac had told him menacingly, though his words were tempered considerably by Jehan rolling his eyes and mouthing ‘drama queen’ behind Courfeyrac’s back).

During a break in the camera flashes, Enjolras pressed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s temple. “You’re doing amazingly well,” he told him in undertones.

Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s waist and winked up at him. “You’re not doing too badly yourself,” he teased.

Once pictures were over, Enjolras headed backstage to get ready while Grantaire followed Combeferre to where he would be sitting. Jehan and Courfeyrac – along with the rest of Les Amis – were in the theatre somewhere, Grantaire knew, but as Enjolras’s special guest, he got preferential seating.

When the show started, Grantaire did not know what, exactly to expect, though a growing ball of anxiety had been building in his stomach all day. He knew that Enjolras kissed the female lead during the performance, and he was worried that his jealousy would get the best of him. He needn’t have worried; it was the beauty of Enjolras as an actor that Grantaire did not get jealous at the girl playing opposite Enjolras. After all, what Grantaire saw was not Enjolras: for the two hours that he watched, he completely forgot that it was his boyfriend up there, instead swept up in the story of Dmitri, who Enjolras seemed to become completely while onstage.

After the curtain call, Grantaire was ushered backstage, where he was met by a breathless Enjolras, huge grin on his face, pupils wide with adrenaline as he pulled Grantaire into a bone-crushing hug before kissing him. The kiss was hot and heady, and probably lasted far beyond what would be considered proper, but as Grantaire’s fingers curled into Enjolras’s hair, he couldn’t really find that he cared.

Finally, they broke apart, and Enjolras grinned at him again. “Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

Enjolras kissed Grantaire once more, a short kiss, and looked down at this feet before taking a quick breath. “I love—” he started, but suddenly a hand on his elbow yanked him away from Grantaire as he was pulled into a conversation with the show’s director. Enjolras tried to pay attention to what the director was saying, but he couldn’t help replay the shocked look on Grantaire’s face when he heard what Enjolras had been about to say. When he was done with the director, he turned around to try and find where Grantaire was.

But Grantaire was gone.

Grantaire had bolted, rather unceremoniously, following the beginning of Enjolras’s statement. He could feel his throat constricting, the sweat break out across his forehead, the tell-tale signs that panic was forthcoming, and he needed to get out from the hot backstage and into the cool night air.

He burst out of an unmarked door and leaned against the wall, hands on his knees as he bent over, trying to control his breathing. He waited for the panic to grip him as certainly as it would. But it didn’t, which could only mean one thing.

It wasn’t a panic attack.

This realization hit Grantaire harder than what Enjolras had started to say. It was not numbness spreading through his body but an inexplicable warmth, and while his breathing was ragged, it was from running away, not from an invisible force pressing on his lungs. By all accounts, six weeks into a relationship with a blond god, Grantaire should have been freaking out over throwing the word love around, but the fact that he wasn’t spoke absolute volumes.

He loved Enjolras.

He also felt like the world’s biggest fool, having just literally run away from the man of his dreams. Though he knew he could get back in to the theatre through the main door, he had a feeling that this particular screw-up would require a bit of a grander gesture.

In the meantime, Enjolras had changed out of his costume, his fingers numb. He had messed up more than ever. He should have followed his initial instincts and kept his stupid feelings to himself instead of blurting them out to Grantaire like an idiot…

His co-star, Laura, knocked on his dressing room door, interrupting his thoughts. “Are you stage-dooring it?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered automatically, standing and following her out to the stage door to greet the fans waiting outside.

As Enjolras greeted fans and signed playbills, he felt like he was on autopilot, his mind a million miles away. His mind was so far away that he almost didn’t notice the huge bouquet of roses that were being pressed into his hands, or the slightly sheepish expression of the man presenting them to him. Then he blinked and Grantaire’s face swam into view. “Hey,” said Enjolras, confused.

“Hey.” Grantaire slipped his hands into his pockets and looked down at the ground. “Listen, I just wanted to—”

Enjolras cut him off. “We can talk about it later, Grantaire. I’ve got a lot of playbills to sign and pictures to take.”

He turned away. Grantaire called after him, suddenly desperate, “I love you, too!”

Turning around instantly, eyes wide, Enjolras breathed, “What?”

Grantaire was blushing furiously but stood his ground. “I love you. I think I’ve kind of always loved you. But I didn’t want to say it because I thought it was too early and then you said it tonight and I fully expected to have a panic attack but I didn’t because you’re my center, Enj, the only thing in my life that makes any kind of sense, and—”

Enjolras crossed to him in two strides, dropping the roses so that he could grab Grantaire’s face and pull him into a fierce kiss. The fans broke into applause, but Enjolras and Grantaire ignored them, even ignoring the flashes from cameras and phones. When they finally broke apart, Enjolras smiled at Grantaire. “I love you,” he said quietly. “I didn’t get to say it before, not fully.”

“And I love you.”

* * *

The third time Grantaire said it, he never wanted to stop saying it.

The third time Enjolras said it, he meant every word.

They stopped counting following the first three times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a side note, I realize that opening nights of Broadway shows don't typically go like the one I described in here, but, hey, creative license, you know?
> 
> Also, remember how last chapter I was all like "oh the next chapter's going to be so short"? April Fool's. The next chapter, however, will probably be only in the 2000-3000 word range. Though I'm probably lying again.


	8. Act I, Scene 7 - "The Next Ten Minutes"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how I said this one was going to be 2000-3000 words long? Ha. Ha. Ha.
> 
> Seriously, I think I'm in need of a Beta for this to help keep me on track. If you're interested, let me know.
> 
> In line with that, I'm going to have to start going to only updating once a week (for which I apologize). I've just got a ton on my plate at the moment in real life (pesky real life, interfering with my fake life).
> 
> Not much to say besides the fact that I don't own anything as usual and this is fluff. Like so much fluff (with like 15 seconds of angst because I just can't help myself).

Act I, Scene 7 – “The Next Ten Minutes” – _The Last 5 Years_

“ _Will you share your life with me_  
 _For the next ten minutes?_  
 _For the next ten lifetimes?_  
 _For a million summers_  
 _Til the world explodes_  
 _Til there’s no one left_  
 _Who had ever known us apart_  
 _There are so many dreams_  
 _I need to see with you_  
 _I will never be complete_  
 _I will never be alive_  
 _I will never change the world_  
 _Until I do_ ”

 

Two weeks in to Enjolras’s show, Enjolras could not help but feel like the luckiest man in the world. He was sprawled on his bed, reading through an email from Courfeyrac on his phone, while Grantaire was sitting at Enjolras’s desk, reading through his own emails on Enjolras’s laptop. Their days were spent for the most part together, sleeping in (though Enjolras typically slipped out well before Grantaire awake to work out with Bossuet – he had to stay fit for the show, but he was typically able to slip back into bed before Grantaire stirred), relaxing, and just reveling in being together.

Enjolras was happy. He had put in an offer for the apartment below his in order to expand and renovate (since having Bahorel and Feuilly the next room over was a bit awkward, somehow more so now that Enjolras and Grantaire were officially living together, even if the amount of time spent together at the apartment hadn’t change). He found himself humming “Thank Goodnes” from _Wicked_ under his breath, but was startled from his reverie when Grantaire suddenly swore loudly.

Grantaire stared, open-mouthed at the computer screen. Enjolras frowned up at him from the bed. “What’s wrong?”

“I…it’s…nothing’s _wrong_ ,” said Grantaire slowly. “I got an email from an art gallery that I submitted some of my work to awhile back – like a long while back. They want to feature my art.”

Shifting from his lounging position on the bed to a sitting one, ready to stand if needed, Enjolras asked cautiously, “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Grantaire waved a hand dismissively. “I mean, sure, at face value. Getting my art displayed at a gallery is awesome. But…” His eyes darted to Enjolras’s before dropping. “Don’t you think the timing is just a little suspicious?”

“What do you mean?”

Biting his lower lip, Grantaire’s eyes didn’t move from staring at the floor. “I mean…I was just some unknown artist all of, what? Eight weeks ago? Now I’m…well, I’m _your_ boyfriend, and people know my name, and _now_ they want to feature my art?” He shook his head. “It’s way too big of a coincidence.”

Enjolras frowned. He could see what Grantaire was getting at, but just couldn’t see the problem. “So?” he asked, brow slightly furrowed. “Surely getting exposure is hugely important, regardless of the fact that you’re getting it from me?”

The moment he said it, he knew he had spoken poorly. Grantaire’s face tightened. “I’d like to actually earn my keep on my own talent,” he snapped, “not ride on your coattails because I happen to be the one fucking you.”

“That’s not what I meant—” Enjolras started, but Grantaire ignored the interruption.

“I’ve been working in this city since I was 18 fucking years old and I just want to make something of myself on my own merit, not mooch off of you anymore than I already am, not use your fame and celebrity to further my own goddamn career. It’s bad enough that I’m staying here for free and you’re paying for basically everything in my life, and, yeah, I know don’t have any money, but, I mean, I’m not a fucking golddigger for Christ’s fucking sake—”

“Grantaire.” The tone of Enjolras’s voice, stern and commanding with a flicker of irritation, cut across Grantaire’s rant and he fell silent, finally looking up at Enjolras. “That is not what I meant, which I would have explained had you let me get a word in edgewise.” He stood and crossed to Grantaire, taking both his hands and pulling him to his feet. “I have been luckier in my life than so many to have been given as much as I have.”

Grantaire could not help but interject, “You’ve also worked your ass off for a lot of it.”

Enjolras’s smile softened, but he still gave Grantaire a warning look, squeezing his hands to stop him from talking. “Even what I’ve earned has come from the help of someone else. Regardless of how I received all that I have, I want to share this with you. I want you to have everything that you want in life. I want you to mooch off me. Because I love you, and everything that is mine is yours.”

Snorting quietly, Grantaire started to pull away from Enjolras. “You don’t mean that. Not really.”

“Damnit, Taire, I do mean it.” Enjolras tightened his grip on Grantaire so as to not let the brunet slip away. “I’ll prove it to you. Marry me, and all this becomes yours, legally speaking.”   

Grantaire pulled away so suddenly Enjolras almost fell over. “What?”

Enjolras’s eyes were dark with sincerity as he repeated, “Marry me, Grantaire. I love you, and I want to be with you. Forever.”

“Now you _really_ don’t mean that.” The words were out of Grantaire’s mouth before he could even think about them. “This is one fucked up proposal.”

Though Enjolras had the decency to blush, he still looked determinedly at Grantaire. “I do mean it. Marry me,” he repeated. “I know we haven’t been together that long, and I know that I didn’t do this properly – I’m not down on one knee, and, shit, I don’t even have a ring, but Grantaire”—he took a deep, steadying breath—“I’ve never meant anything more in my life. Marry me.”

“I…” Grantaire was completely speechless.

Enjolras could not help but bite his lip nervously, eyes searching Grantaire’s. “I…I know that I didn’t exactly do this right…”

“It is a little unconventional,” agreed Grantaire with a weak laugh. His mind and heart were racing so much that he barely noticed the words that followed. “I mean, where’s the romance? The candles? The champagne? The music playing softly in the background? Isn’t this supposed to be one of the most memorable experiences of our lives?”

Enjolras’s face fell and he dropped Grantaire’s hands. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “You’re absolutely right.” He took a deep breath, determination hardening his features. “Well, I take it back, then.”

“What?” asked Grantaire, confused.

“I take it back. The proposal. Such as it was.”

Grantaire stared at him. “You can’t just take something like that back.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow at him. “Why not? You’re right – this was hardly the way to propose to someone. And you – you deserve a better proposal than this.” Leaning in, he kissed Grantaire again, cupping the other man’s cheek, eyes searching his. “I promise that you will get your dream proposal. And I hope when you do, you’ll say yes.” The alarm on his phone went off and Enjolras sighed. “I have to go. See you later?”

“Uh, yeah, later,” said Grantaire, still struggling to talk properly. “I love you!” he called after Enjolras as the blond man headed toward the door.

Pausing, Enjolras turned to smile at Grantaire. “I know.”

Then he was gone, and Grantaire sank down onto the bed. His mind was racing, still trying to process what exactly had happened. One thought overrode the rest— _I’m too sober for this shit_. That, at least, was one problem that Grantaire would have no difficulty taking care of.

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen and retreated back into the bedroom, staring vacantly at the wall as he swigged from the bottle. He felt hollow inside, as he continued to drink, it dawned upon him why – he should have said yes and been done with it. He didn't even know if he had wanted to say yes, but the thought of sitting around waiting for some contrived proposal that he truthfully never wanted in the first place made him feel a little ill. Hands shaking, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts to find the only person who perhaps knew Enjolras better than he did. “Combeferre?” Grantaire’s voice was small. “I think I’ve made a huge mistake. And I need your help.”

* * *

 

Of all of Les Amis, Combeferre was the one that Grantaire had probably spent the most time around, since Combeferre was always in and out of Enjolras’s apartment, but was also the one that he had spoken to least, and he had no real idea what Combeferre thought of him. He knew that Combeferre was Enjolras’s oldest friend, and that Combeferre had told Courfeyrac to back off when this whole thing originally started, but he also knew that Combeferre had done that for Enjolras’s sake, not for his.

So it was with trepidation that he awaited Combeferre’s arrival, completely unaware of how the other man would react. When Combeferre knocked on the door – polite as ever, since he had his own key – Grantaire let him in and stood awkwardly for a moment, biting his lip nervously. Combeferre smiled at him and handed him a cup of coffee. “Here. I brought this for you. You sounded like you might need it.”

“Thanks,” said Grantaire without much enthusiasm.

“I made sure that they left extra room so you could add some whiskey to it,” Combeferre continued as he followed Grantaire into the kitchen.

Grantaire grinned at that. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re the best?” He pulled the lid off the cup and dumped a good amount of whiskey into it.

Leaning casually against the counter, Combeferre smiled as he took a sip of his own coffee. “It’s been mentioned,” he said off-handedly.

They fell into silence as both sipped their coffee, Combeferre calm and serene while Grantaire tapped the side of his cup with nervous fingers. Finally, Grantaire caved, unable to take the silence any longer. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened.” Combeferre just raised an eyebrow. “Enjolras asked me to marry him.”

“Ah.” There was no surprise in Combeferre’s voice, just a cool calculation that made Grantaire realize for the first time that Combeferre must be _excellent_ at his job. “And what did you say to that?”

Grantaire took a hasty swig of coffee. “Um, I may have made stupid comments about the way he chose to propose and so he took it back and told me that he’ll plan the perfect proposal instead.”

“And that’s a bad thing.”

Shaking his head at the unspoken question, Grantaire tried to explain. “Not on its own, I guess, but I don’t…I don’t want that.”

Combeferre looked at him sharply. “You don’t want him to propose that way, or you don’t want him to propose at all?” When Grantaire gave a non-committal half-shrug, Combeferre asked, “Do you want to marry him?”

“I…” Grantaire bit his lip and looked down. “I really don’t know. I had never thought about it before.” He huffed a sigh. “Before Enjolras, there was never anyone that I would have even thought about marrying, but at the same time, I don’t know if I ever really thought of marriage in my future.”

Combeferre nodded in understanding, though his eyes remained impassive. “Do you intend to tell him ‘no’, then?”

Grantaire ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “No…I don’t know. If I were to marry anyone it would be him, that’s not the question, it’s whether marriage is even something meant for me at all.”

Frowning, Combeferre asked, “What’s the biggest issue that you see with marriage? Is it the institution in general? The idea of being with one person for the rest of your life?”

“Um, neither?” Grantaire sighed. “You know all about what my past was like – I mean, the entire country knows what my past was like – and I just can’t imagine inflicting that on someone permanently. Especially not someone like Enjolras.” Taking a deep breath, he whispered, “I’m just trying to leave him an out because I know that this can’t last, not really, and I want to make it as easy for him as possible when it falls apart.”

Combeferre understood instantly, and took a moment to compose his thoughts before speaking. “Grantaire, I know that you and I don’t talk all that much, but please believe when I say that I know Enjolras. Possibly better than anyone. And he would not propose marriage unless he absolutely meant it. He’s not stupid, Grantaire. He knows exactly what he’s getting into, and he doesn’t care. He loves you and wants to be with you, forever. So if that’s something you want as well, I would suggest at least considering it.”

“Do you mean it? Really?” There was an edge of desperation in Grantaire’s voice, and Combeferre, though never the sentimental one, never the comforting one, reached out and pulled Grantaire into a brief hug.

“I would never suggest it if I didn’t mean it,” he told Grantaire gently. Pulling away slightly to study Grantaire at arm’s length, Combeferre said shrewdly, “I get the feeling that you do actually want to marry Enjolras. You just don’t think that you _should_ marry Enjolras, for stupid – albeit noble – reasons.” Pausing, he looked at Grantaire closely. “Enjolras loves you more than I’ve ever seen someone love another person. And he wants to marry you. If he were to come back in here right now and asked you to marry him again, without thinking and overanalyzing, what would you say?”

Grantaire stared at him, then smiled slowly.”I would say ‘Yes’.” He sucked in a quick breath, then added, smile growing even wider, “I would say ‘yes’ and I would mean it wholeheartedly.”

Combeferre smiled as well, nodding sagely. “There. Well, that’s settled.”

Grimacing, Grantaire shook his head. “Well, not really.”

“What do you mean?”

Grantaire sighed. “There’s still the issue that he’s working on this elaborate proposal scheme. Do you think I want the memory of Enjolras proposing to me to begin and end with me telling him that I wanted romance and then having to sit through the manufactured ridiculousness of it? I know Enj, Combeferre, and he's not going to do this half-assed, and all because I made a stupid joke that he took as serious."

Combeferre frowned but did not argue with that. "And I don't suppose you could just tell him that you don't actually want any of that?"

A wry smile flashed across Grantaire's face. "You think he would believe that? He'd just think that I was only telling him that because I felt bad or something, and then he would try all the harder." Sighing, Grantaire rubbed his eyes tiredly. "It's hard being in love with someone perfect."

Since Combeferre _really_ did not know what to say to that, he just shook his head, eyes vacant as he thought of a solution to Grantaire’s problem. “I’ve got it!” He said suddenly, smiling broadly. “Everything Enjolras does is perfectly planned, right?”

Grantaire frowned, unable to see where Combeferre was going with this. “Sure…”

“So mess up his plan.” When Grantaire still looked confused, Combeferre elaborated, “Make it memorable by not allowing it to follow the stereotypical plan”

Grantaire’s brow was furrowed, but he looked intrigued. “Well, what did you have in mind? I mean, short from proposing to Enjolras myself…”

Combeferre stared at Grantaire, grinning. “Grantaire, you’re a genius. That’s exactly what you should do.”

Grantaire blinked. “You want me to propose to Enjolras?” He thought about it for a brief moment before a smile started to creep across his face. “Well, I guess it would be memorable…”

“It would be perfectly imperfect,” pronounced Combeferre, eyes gleaming. “Sit down. I’ll make more coffee. We’ve got some planning of our own to do.”

* * *

 

Enjolras nervously fiddled with his bowtie as he stood in the private room of one of the best restaurants in Manhattan. Feuilly would be arriving soon with Grantaire, and Enjolras did a quick spot check of the room to make sure everything was in place. Candles were lit, the champagne was already poured, the music would be starting shortly…It was going to be perfect.

Suddenly the door to the room swung open and Grantaire stood in the doorway, hands in his jeans pockets (the most ragged pair of jeans he owned, of course). Enjolras could not help but feel irritated. He had told Grantaire to dress up, for Christ’s sake, the least the man could have done is put on some dress pants. “You’re early,” he told Grantaire, frowning slightly.

“No, I’m just on time,” said Grantaire in a strangely husky voice, still lingering in the doorway. He took a deep breath and walked toward Enjolras, emotions battling on his face.

When he was a few feet from Enjolras, he stopped, and Enjolras, confused, started to ask him what was going on, when Grantaire knelt down on one knee, pulling a ring from his jeans pocket and holding it out to Enjolras. “Enjolras Moreau, will you marry me?”

Enjolras stared at him, open-mouthed. Then he sighed loudly. “Grantaire, you idiot, I was supposed to be proposing to you.”

“I know,” said Grantaire, still holding the ring out towards him. “But then I realized that I didn’t want candles and champagne and any of this. I just want you. Forever.”

Enjolras knelt down in front of him, his eyes never leaving Grantaire’s. “And you shall have me forever. I promise.”

He took the ring from Grantaire’s trembling fingers and slid it onto his own. “So you will marry me?” Grantaire asked, barely daring to breath.

Rolling his eyes but grinning, Enjolras leaned forward and kissed him. “Yes. Of course. I will marry you.” He pulled away to pull a ring box from his own pocket. “And you, will you marry me?”

“Wasn’t that kind of implied when I asked _you_ to marry _me_?” asked Grantaire, but he added as he allowed Enjolras to slip the ring onto his finger, “Yes, I will.”

They kissed again, a kiss that started sweet and gentle but quickly turned hard, Grantaire balling one hand in Enjolras’s tux jacket and using the other one to grip Enjolras’s hair, while Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hips and pulled him closer so that their bodies were practically flush against each other. Grantaire felt as if he never wanted to move again, ignoring the fact that his knees were getting a little sore from kneeling on the ground.

Of course, it wasn’t meant to last. Quiet but unmistakably live music began filling the room, and Grantaire pulled away from Enjolras, confused. When he saw that a string quartet had set up in the corner, he groaned aloud and rested his head against Enjolras’s. “Another of your romantic surprises?” he asked, his voice strained.

Enjolras just chuckled softly. “I thought it would be a nice touch. Of course, had I known they would have such impeccable timing…”

Grantaire groaned aloud. “I would’ve fucked you here on the floor, you realize,” he whispered in Enjolras’s ear.

Enjolras flashed a grin at him. “Probably for the best that the strings showed up when they did, then. Or need I remind you that we’re in a semi-public space?”

“That was going to be half the fun,” sighed Grantaire, allowing Enjolras to pull him to his feet.

Still grinning, Enjolras pulled Grantaire over to the table. “I’m sure you’ll manage to get over it somehow. In the meantime, I did already pay for the food and champagne, so let’s actually enjoy it, shall we?”

They sat at the prepared table and within moments a waiter, previously hidden somewhere – Grantaire blushed furiously at the thought that the waiter had undoubtedly seen them – brought them their meals (steak for Grantaire, lobster for Enjolras; the waiter assured Enjolras in undertones that the steak was organic and free-range and the lobster was sustainably harvested). For the most part they ate in comfortable silence, listening to the music, but every now and again one of the men would look at the other, a shy, almost goofy smile on his face.

The conversation turned eventually to what Enjolras had actually planned for the proposal, and he admitted, blushing, that he had asked for Eponine and Cosette’s help, and then he had asked Jehan about flowers, so Courfeyrac and Jehan knew about the proposal, while Grantaire confessed that he had help planning his own surprise from Combeferre. Enjolras smiled at Grantaire. “It was going to a much more traditional proposal. All proper and everything.”

“I can see that. You followed every step. Except…you did ask my father for permission, right?” Grantaire asked casually, spearing a piece of Enjolras’s lobster with his fork. Enjolras glowered at him for the food theft, then froze, horror slowly spreading across his features. “You didn’t even ask my dad?” Grantaire chuckled. “Here I thought you wanted to do everything right, but you missed a pretty big step there.”

“I’m so, so sorry Taire,” said Enjolras earnestly, reaching out to grab Grantaire’s hand. “I didn’t even think about it. You never talk about your family, so I just assumed…”

Grantaire couldn’t stop himself from cracking up at Enjolras’s desperate attempts to appease him. “God, the look on your face,” he chortled. “My dad is long gone, Enj. He left my mom when I was only 3. I was just yanking your chain. I just didn’t expect you to fall for it so easily.”

Enjolras instantly looked relieved, though he quickly changed it into a glare. “Not funny, Taire,” he growled, though his lips quirked with a smile. Then he turned serious. “I am sorry to hear that about your dad.”

“No need to be,” said Grantaire with a shrug. “I didn’t know him. He didn’t even come back when my mom died.” At Enjolras’s raised eyebrow, Grantaire elaborated, “My mom died when I was fifteen. I thought that, maybe, you know, he’d come back. For me. He didn’t. So I got sent into the foster care system until I was 18. I was lucky enough to be at a pretty decent group home, all things considered.” Frowning slightly, he snagged another piece of Enjolras’s lobster and then asked, through his mouthful of food, “What about you? I just realized that in all the time I’ve spent with you – not to mention, you know, all the mild internet stalking I did before we met – I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your family.”

With a grimace, Enjolras took a swig of champagne. “They live upstate. We don’t talk. They—how did my dad put this the last time I spoke with him? Ah…they don’t approve of my life choices.” At Grantaire's frown he added, "My dad wanted me to be a lawyer, and my mom...well, I think she wanted me to be straight, so I've done a fine job of disappointing both of them, needless to say."

Now it was Grantaire's turn to say, quietly, "I'm sorry."

"No need to be," said Enjolras, returning Grantaire's words with a gentle smile. "Besides, you're all the family I need."

Grantaire grinned and raised his glass. "In that case, to family."

"To family," repeated Enjolras. He clinked his glass against Grantaire’s and took another sip before asking, almost shyly, “So, was this proposal more to your liking? Romantic enough for you?”

“Truthfully?” Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, smiling slowly. “It was definitely more to my liking. Especially since, when we tell everyone, you have to tell everyone that technically, I proposed to you. So I suppose the real question is, was this proposal to _your_ liking?”

Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “I could not have asked for a better proposal. And I am more than happy to tell every single person I know that the love of my life proposed to me.” He paused, his eyes soft as they locked on to Grantaire’s. “I love you.”

Grantaire leaned across the table to plant a kiss on Enjolras’s lips. “And I love you.” He looked down at the silver ring gleaming from his finger and added, eyes gleaming, “Fiancé.”

Wincing, Enjolras asked, “Can’t we use a different term than that?”

“What would you rather I called you?” asked Grantaire. “My beau? My betrothed? My lover in the nighttime?”

“And in the daytime,” interjected Enjolras.

“And in the daytime,” acknowledged Grantaire. “So really my lover all the time, I guess.”

Enjolras smiled. “How about I call you my forever?”

Grantaire stared at Enjolras for a moment, his eyes soft, then he snorted. “You’re so fucking cheesy sometimes. Remind me again why I put up with you, why I agreed to marry your sentimental ass?”

“Because—” started Enjolras, when his phone rang. Pulling it out, he answered it after a look at the screen to see who was calling. “Courf, this had better be good.”

Courfeyrac’s voice was so loud on the other end that Enjolras did not need to put the phone on speaker for Grantaire to hear. “Jehan and I were dying of anticipation, sorry. How did it go?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but grin widely. “Well, let’s just say that Grantaire is now my—what was it we agreed on, Grantaire?”

Grantaire shouted, “LOVER ALL THE TIME” while Enjolras said, “My forever.” They looked at each other and said simultaneously, “My forever lover!”

Then they both cracked up, Grantaire practically falling off his chair from laughing so hard, while tears of laughter coursed down Enjolras’s face. After a solid five minutes of laughing, Enjolras remembered that he was still on the phone with Courfeyrac, and said, “Courf?” into the phone. He grinned at Grantaire. “He hung up.”

This set off a fresh wave of laughter, which was cut off when Grantaire slid out of his seat to settle on Enjolras’s lap, kissing the blond man deeply. Enjolras kissed him back enthusiastically, though when they broke apart to breathe, he asked, “What was that for?”

Grantaire smiled at him. “Let’s just say I remembered why I’m marrying you.”

“Oh?” asked Enjolras, trying not to sound too interested as he laced his fingers through Grantaire’s.

“I’m marrying you because you make the absolute happiest I have ever been in my life. When I’m with you, I feel like being fucked up isn’t such a bad thing after all. And most importantly”—he paused to kiss Enjolras again—“I’m marrying you because I am completely in love with you.”

Enjolras smiled. “Those are pretty good reasons, I suppose. And I’m marrying you because I love you, and I think you’re perfect, and I never want to spend another day without you by my side.”

Grantaire smiled at him, then shifted, slightly uncomfortable by how unbearably sweet the conversation had become. “Good. Because you’ll never get rid of me now!” Laughing, he stole the last bit of Enjolras’s lobster and darted away.

Enjolras scowled, but his voice was full of sincerity when he said softly, “I would never want to.” 


	9. Entr'acte - "Marry the Man Today"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah.
> 
> Usual disclaimer.

Entr'acte – “Marry the Man Today” – _Guys and Dolls_

“ _Marry the man today_  
 _Trouble though he may be_  
 _Much as he likes to play_  
 _Crazy and wild and free_  
 _Marry the man today_  
 _Rather than sigh and sorrow_  
 _Marry the man today_  
 _And change his ways tomorrow_ ”

 

The tabloids called him crazy. It was the first time his sanity had ever been publicly called into question, and he had to admit that he found it funnier than he thought he would. Courfeyrac, however, was less amused, but after floods of support came in from all corners of the country, not even Courfeyrac could complain. The declarations of Enjolras’s insanity came after the announcement was made that he and Grantaire would be getting married on their sixth month anniversary. The right-wingers decried the idea of a gay marriage in general, of course, but even the liberal media declared it “too soon”.

Of course, once it became apparent that Enjolras was not going to change his mind, especially as the wedding date approached, the media began declaring it the “wedding event of the year”, with each trying to get a scoop on the “fairytale-worthy romance.”

Grantaire almost peed himself from laughing at that one.

Enjolras, however, had to admit that their relationship was a bit fantastical. Never in a million years would he have expected to marry a man he had known for a mere six months. But everything about it felt so perfect, and really, fell so quickly into place that it seemed like fate. They were going to be married at The Foundry in Queens, on their exact sixth month anniversary, which happened to be the only date free. All the other arrangements had fallen almost miraculously into place – thanks in large part to the combined efforts of Eponine and Cosette, whose sweet looks hid iron determination and who both could be downright terrifying.

Now, he stood in the dressing room, examining his reflection in the mirror, and trying to stop the ball of nerves that tightened in his stomach from overwhelming him. He had no reason to be nervous; he knew he was making the best decision he had ever made in his life by marrying Grantaire, but that logic wasn’t exactly helping him at the moment.

Instead, he fiddled with his bowtie and adjusted his boutonniere for the umpteenth time, when there was a sudden knock on the door. Enjolras half-turned to look. “Ferre?” he asked, assuming it was his best man coming to tell him it was almost time.

The door open and Jehan poked his head in. "No, it's me. Can I come in?"

"Of course," said Enjolras, surprised to see Grantaire’s best man at his door. "Aren't you supposed to be helping Grantaire get ready?"

Jehan stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. "He's pretty much all set. Nervous as can be, of course, but he kicked me out because he didn't want me quoting poetry at him."

A smile quirked at Enjolras’s mouth, though he looked at Jehan with mock-dread. “Well, I can tell you right now that if you’re here to quote poetry at me, you might want to reconsider that as well.” When Jehan looked down at the ground, frowning, Enjolras added gently, “I was only joking.” The poet just shook his head wordlessly, and Enjolras crossed the room to him, concerned. “What is it, Jehan?”

“I don’t…I didn’t want to have this conversation. So I put it off. Probably for far too long. But it needs to be said, and I…” Trailing off, Jehan took a deep breath as if steeling his resolve. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Enjolras stared at Jehan. Of all the places he thought Jehan was going to be going with this conversation, this was last on his mind. "Of course I want to do this."

"Truly?" Jehan's smile twisted. "With everything that comes along with it?"

"Jehan, what are you talking about?"

Looking down for a moment, Jehan sighed, a sigh that made the poet sound ancient and infinitely sad. "For better or for worse isn't just an abstract with Grantaire, Enjolras. He's had some of his best months since meeting you, but it won't last. It never does. And are you ready to commit to staying regardless of how low he falls next?"

Enjolras was completely lost for words as he stared open-mouthed at Jehan. His throat constricted and he could feel the fury beginning to boil in his veins. “Are you kidding me right now?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice calm even as his hands balled into fists at his side. “You want to stand here on my wedding day and say this about the man that I’m about to marry?”

To his credit, Jehan did not waver, meeting Enjolras’s gaze steadily. “Yes, I do. Because I have to make sure that when you make that vow to him you truly mean it.”

“Of course I mean it,” snapped Enjolras. “You have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Jehan’s voice was almost mild and Enjolras had to clench his jaw to not be tempted to punch him in the face. “You forget, I’ve known Grantaire for a lot longer than you, and I know what he’s capable of.” Taking a deep breath, he stated flatly, “He tried to kill himself, you know. My junior year. He went off his meds and…Well, I won’t get into details.”

Enjolras swallowed hard and looked down. His blood was still pounding in his ears but now it was tinged with a different emotion. "He said that he had thought about it before, but I didn't realize..."

Jehan half-smiled. "He doesn't talk about it. He was in the hospital for almost a month and he never once talked about it, even in there." He looked up at Enjolras. "What would you do if he tried again?"

"I wouldn't let him," vowed Enjolras, a fierce light shining in his eyes. “I will stand by him, Jehan, and I won’t let him hurt himself again. I will fight for him even when he cannot.”

Jehan looked annoyed, and, for a moment, dangerous. “That won’t be enough to fix him, Enjolras. To cure what’s inside him. Just having a person is never enough – would that it were. But his bipolar disorder – it’s a disease, Enj, not something you can cure.”

“I know that, Jehan,” said Enjolras through clenched teeth.

Cocking his head slightly, Jehan asked, “Do you? Really? Did you ever ask Grantaire what his last manic episode was like? Or how long his last depressive cycle was? Did he ever tell you about the time he went to Brooklyn for something but instead ended up on the BrooklynBridge, where he called me to tell me he wanted to jump off? Did he ever tell you about buying a new X-Acto knife for an art project and instead using it to carve up his arms? Or when he has a manic episode and goes out to find random strangers to fuck?” Enjolras flinched as if he had been slapped, and Jehan’s voice softened. “You have to know what you’re getting into you. You of all people know the importance of informed consent – you’ve lectured the rest of us on the subject enough. Not to mention,” and here Jehan’s voice grew sterner, “you were supposed to talk to him about this, remember? When you asked me about his panic attacks?” Enjolras suddenly seemed very interested in staring at the floor, and Jehan sighed. “Have you spoken to him about this at all?”

Enjolras had the decency to look a little embarrassed. “No. I figured he would tell me when he was ready. I…I didn’t want to pry.”

Jehan rolled his eyes. “Yes, which is very noble of you, but you’re marrying this man, Enjolras. It isn’t exactly prying to know what you’ll be getting yourself into.”

Shaking his head, Enjolras changed the subject, still furious. "Why are you here, telling me this now? Are you trying to stop this wedding from happening?

Jehan almost smiled at that. "My intentions couldn't be further from that. I want you two to be happier than far better poets than I can put into words, but part of that is ensuring that you're truly ready for this and everything that comes with it." Pausing, he flushed slightly and looked down. “The truth is that I wanted to talk to you about this weeks ago, when you first got engaged, but Grantaire…He was so happy. And, since I didn’t know how you were going to react…I just couldn’t ruin that for him. So I kept putting it off. And I know I’ve left it for far too late, but…” Looking up at Enjolras, his face was more troubled than Enjolras had ever seen it. “I would never forgive myself if I didn’t tell you and something were to happen. If you were to leave him and he were too far gone…”

“Now you’re beginning to sound like Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed. He didn’t look nearly as angry has he previously had, and though his body was still taut with tension, understanding had settled over his features. “When are both or either of you going to believe that I’m not going to run when things get hard?”

Smiling a real smile now, trying not to show the relief that coursed through him, Jehan said softly, “You are made of sterner stuff than that, I suppose.”

Enjolras reached out to rest a tentative hand on Jehan’s shoulder. “I am. But so are you. And thank you for telling me. Even if you picked the worst time possible. You’re a good friend, Jehan.”

Ducking his head, Jehan nodded once, then turned toward the door. “Jehan.” Enjolras’s voice was troubled but distant, and the poet turned, hand on the doorknob. “Do you remember that song you wanted me to sing to Grantaire at the reception? The one by one of his favorite groups from when he was a kid?”

“The one you said was so cheesy you’d throw up in the middle of singing it?” Jehan couldn’t help teasing slightly, trying to relieve the tension that still radiated between the two men.

Enjolras half-smiled. “That would be the one. Tell the DJ to strike what I told him and put it back on the list.” He paused, then added in a low voice full of heat, “And I mean all those words too, Jehan.”

Despite the almost menace in Enjolras’s voice, Jehan smiled, though there was a tinge of sadness, and resignation, and even a hint of what might have been guilt in his smile. “He strained my faith – Did he find it supple? / Shook my strong trust – Did it then – yield? / Hurled my belief – But – did he shatter – it? / Racked – with suspense – Not a nerve failed!” Then he slipped out the door, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts.

* * *

 

When Enjolras stood in front of the small crowd, Grantaire’s hands in his, Grantaire’s eyes full of love and trust and a million swirling emotions, it was without any wavering or hesitation that Enjolras’s voice rang out. “I do.”

* * *

 

Courfeyrac’s voice was full of barely contained glee as he announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pride and my deepest pleasure to introduce, for the first time as husbands, Mr. and Mr. Enjolras and Grantaire Moreau.”

Enjolras looked sideways at Grantaire as they walked in to the reception to thunderous applause. “I didn’t know you were planning on taking my name.”

“I know. I wanted it to be a surprise.” Grantaire squeezed his hand. “You did promise that when we got married, everything that was yours was mine.”

Dropping a quick kiss to Grantaire’s temple, Enjolras squeezed his hand back. “And I meant every word. But we are going to have to have a discussion of the reinforcement of patriarchy through marriage customs at some point.”

Though Grantaire rolled his eyes, he grinned wickedly at Enjolras as they sat down at the head table, Combeferre on Enjolras’s left, Jehan on Grantaire’s right. “I look forward to it, especially the way you get so… _passionate_ …when discussing patriarchy.”

Enjolras’s eyes seemed to darken as his pupils dilated, and he leaned in so that his lips were almost touching Grantaire’s, his breath ghosting over Grantaire’s mouth as he whispered, voice low with promise, “Just you wait.”

Following dinner and toasts by Combeferre and Jehan—the two could not have been any more different, Combeferre’s speech succinct but still ringing with truth, while Jehan’s was a flowery composition that Grantaire suspected – were he to go back and read it – that it was written in iambic pentameter—Grantaire stiffened slightly next to Enjolras, knowing what was supposed to come next.

To his surprise, Enjolras stood, bent to kiss the top of Grantaire’s head, and then practically bounded over to where the string quartet that had played softly throughout dinner was still set up. He grabbed a microphone and nodded at the DJ before turning to the crowd. “I know it’s tradition to open with a dance, but we’re pretty far from what could be considered a traditional couple,” said Enjolras into the microphone, smirking slightly, “and Grantaire assured me – rather cheerfully, I might add – that he would personally eviscerate me if I forced him to dance with every person here watching us. So instead—” he gestured, and Combeferre set a chair in the middle of the dance floor while Courfeyrac and Bahorel frog-marched Grantaire over to it—“everyone gets to watch me while I get to sing to him.”

Grantaire’s face was beet red and, if possible, turned even redder when the music began. But then Enjolras looked at him, pure adoration written on his face, and as he began to sing, Grantaire froze, staring up at him.

“When the visions around you  
Bring tears to your eyes  
And all that surrounds you  
Are secrets and lies  
I’ll be your strength  
I’ll give you hope  
Keeping your faith when it’s gone  
The one you should call  
Was standing here all along”

Jehan gripped Courfeyrac’s hand, turning his head so that Grantaire wouldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes and question him about it later. It wouldn’t have mattered. Grantaire had eyes only for Enjolras.

“And I will take you in my arms  
And hold you right where you belong  
Til the day my life is through  
This I promise you  
This I promise you”

Grantaire was sure that he looked like an idiot, staring up at Enjolras without moving, and the practical side of himself reminded him that he had heard Enjolras sing a million times before. But not like this. Never like this. Never with words and with his voice that embraced Grantaire as surely as Enjolras’s arms did.

“I’ve loved you forever  
In lifetimes before  
And I promise you never  
Will you hurt anymore  
I give you my word  
I give you my heart  
This is a battle we won  
And with this vow  
Forever has now begun”

Tears began coursing down Grantaire’s face that he didn’t even try to stop. It was as if Enjolras was speaking to every single one of Grantaire’s insecurities, vowing to fight them alongside him, and for the first – and probably only – time Grantaire allowed himself to believe that he could fight his demons with Enjolras beside him.

“Just close your eyes  
Each loving day  
And know this feeling  
Won’t go away  
Til the day my life is through  
This I promise you  
This I promise you”

There was so much that Grantaire could not wait to experience with Enjolras, so much that he had never let himself hope for or dream of. But if this, his most desperate dream, could come true, then maybe, just maybe, his other dreams could come true, with time, as well.

“Over and over I fall  
When I hear you call  
Without you in my life, baby  
I just wouldn’t be living at all”

Enjolras’s voice cracked ever so slightly on the last note, not enough that anyone but Grantaire probably noticed it. He loved Enjolras more than ever in that moment, loved him for sharing his imperfections with him. Grantaire had never felt whole as a person; too much in him was broken beyond repair for him to ever feel truly whole. But Enjolras had been the first and only thing in his life to make him think that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t whole. They were whole together.

“And I will take you in my arms  
And hold you right where you belong  
Til the day my life is through  
This I promise you baby  
Just close your eyes each loving day  
You know this feeling won’t go away  
Every word I say is true  
This I promise you

Every word I say is true  
This I promise you  
Oo, I promise you”

After the final, poignant note faded away, the crowd broke into applause, but Grantaire leapt to his feet. He met Enjolras in the middle of the dance floor and kissed him, hard, curling his fingers into Enjolras’s hair as if would never let go, not caring that there were still tears streaked down his face that wet Enjolras’s cheeks, not caring that a few of the older guests were clearing their throats loudly at the display as it extended for several minutes, caring only about the man in front of him. Caring only about his husband.

Enjolras broke the kiss, leaning back just far enough that he could look into Grantaire’s eyes, a small smile on his face. “Hey,” he said softly.

“Hey.” Grantaire squeezed Enjolras’s hand. “Thank you.”

Reaching up to wipe a lingering tear from Grantaire’s cheek, Enjolras said simply, “Jehan suggested the song. He said that *NSYNC was a favorite of yours from when you were a kid, and, well, once I heard the song it was too perfect.”

“Jehan wasn’t wrong about the song being perfect,” said Grantaire off-handedly, “but remind me to kill him nonetheless.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why?”

Grantaire grinned and kissed Enjolras again. “*NSYNC was _his_ favorite, not mine. Mine was the Backstreet Boys. Which the bastard well knows.” At Enjolras’s suddenly crestfallen look, Grantaire quickly said, “Listen, I wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world. Not even you singing every single Backstreet Boys song.” He paused, considering, then allowed, “Well, in a different context, perhaps. But I loved it. Almost as much as I love you.”

That brought a smile back to Enjolras’s face, and he gave Grantaire a slow, lingering kiss. “Just so you know, I meant every single word.” He pulled Grantaire’s hand up to his mouth and kissed his knuckles gently. “This is a battle we’ve won.”

Grantaire grinned at Enjolras, his eyes shining with love. “Forever has now begun,” he whispered, kissing Enjolras. “This I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, song is "This I Promise You" by *NSYNC. Poem Jehan quotes is "He Strained My Faith" by Emily Dickinson.
> 
> That ended so fluffily it's ridiculous, but the only thing I have to say to that is [this](http://media.tumblr.com/09ab21dc2e79b0d68839e6042d8e5696/tumblr_inline_mki60h3oGw1qz4rgp.gif).
> 
> As a casual reminder, Act II is dark. Very dark. Though I want everyone to continue on this journey with me, if you'd rather live in a world of delightful happiness, now would be a good place to stop reading.
> 
> Also, I should add an additional disclaimer that will become part of the usual disclaimer as we go on: Anything I say about mental illness writ large or specifically is based solely on my own experiences and is not meant to be representative of all who suffer from mental illness nor representative of all experiences with a specific disorder. If you have any questions, comments, concerns about how I've portrayed something, hit me up in the comments and we can chat, or if you'd rather do it privately, send me a message on [Tumblr](http://kjack89.tumblr.com).


	10. Act II, Scene 1 - "What is it About Her?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer plus the added caveat from last time: Anything I say about mental illness writ large or specifically is based solely on my own experiences and is not meant to be representative of all who suffer from mental illness nor representative of all experiences with a specific disorder. If you have any questions, comments, concerns about how I've portrayed something, hit me up in the comments and we can chat, or if you'd rather do it privately, send me a message on [Tumblr](http://kjack89.tumblr.com).
> 
> The darkness begins...

Act II, Scene 1 – “What is it About Her?” – _The Wild Party_

“ _Who’s wrong? Who’s right?_  
 _I’ve never known_  
 _Should I hold my own_  
 _Now – or be alone_  
 _We fall tonight_  
 _We fight_  
 _What is it about him?_  
 _That jumbles feelings inside?_  
 _So coarse, so queer_  
 _What is it about him_  
 _That mixes passion with pride?_  
 _That holds me here?_  
 _Could I live without him_  
 _And let him go?_  
 _How loud must I scream_  
 _No!_ ”

The buzz of Enjolras’s phone woke him late one morning, and he extricated himself from Grantaire as quietly and gently as possible so as to not wake the still-sleeping man. Grabbing his phone, he read the text message from Courfeyrac. “ _Congrats! U got the part!_ ”

Enjolras couldn’t help but grin. He had been up for the lead role in a new television series. His run in _Anastasia_ was almost at its end, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, especially since filming was set to take place in New York. Suddenly, his phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Combeferre.

“ _All staff meeting in an hour_.”

Frowning, Enjolras started to type a message asking Combeferre what the issue was, but decided against it. Whatever it was, they would discuss it at the meeting. With a sigh, Enjolras tapped out a quick acquiescence and looked down at Grantaire, debating over waking him. After a moment of hesitation, he decided not to.

They had been married for almost six months now, and Enjolras had not known before this that it was possible to be this happy. If he had been Grantaire, he might have been concerned that things were going too well, that surely something was going to happen to ruin the perfect bliss that he had felt for so long now.

But he was not Grantaire, and Enjolras believed always in the best in people and in circumstances, a true optimist at heart. So he rolled over, pressed a gentle kiss to Grantaire’s forehead and slid out of bed to take a shower.

Grantaire was still not awake when Enjolras crept back into the bedroom to dress himself, so he did so quickly and quietly to avoid waking the dark-haired man, and left him a note in the kitchen that said simply, “ _Les Amis meeting. Didn’t want to wake you. Shouldn’t be long. Love you. E._ ”

He met Feuilly and Bahorel downstairs and together they went to the meeting. Both Feuilly and Bahorel asked if Enjolras knew why the meeting had been called, but Enjolras could only shrug.

When they arrived, they headed to the conference room, where Combeferre sat with Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was frowning down at his phone, and Combeferre looked serious. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him, and Combeferre just shook his head once. This was something that they needed to wait for everyone to discuss.

Everyone had trickled in by the time the meeting was supposed to start, even Marius, who just looked confused as to why he was there. In truth, everyone was confused as to why they were there, but they waited for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to speak. Courfeyrac started. “Well, firstly, Enjolras got the part in the HBO series.”

Grins and pats on the back were exchanged, but then Combeferre cleared his throat. “There’s an issue, though. We heard from the producers this morning after the offer was made. They’re moving production to LA. Non-negotiable.”

Silence fell over the group as everyone looked at Enjolras, who looked deep in thought. “What’s the time commitment?” he asked quietly.

“Nine months. Easy. Including promotional activities.”

Bossuet let out a low whistle and exchanged a look with Joly. Nine months was a long commitment, especially for an actor; most TV shows’ filming only lasted 3-4 months, at most, but this was a big budget show, with a detail-oriented director attached. That kind of time commitment would require moving out to LA. Enjolras looked around the table, his expression inscrutable. “This is not just my decision,” he said, his voice still quiet. “If I were to move out to LA, even if just for a year, I would need some of you to come with me.”

Nodding, Combeferre leaned forward. “Hence the all-staff meeting. Now, in terms of Les Amis, this actually comes at a really good time for us. Courfeyrac has been wanting to expand out to the West Coast and bringing some more talent on board. And I’m, of course, willing to go wherever. But for the rest of you…” He trailed off.

Joly leaned forward, frowning slightly. “I think it should go without saying that we’ll go wherever Enjolras needs us to.”

“I can’t ask that of you.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet but firm. “You all have lives here. I can’t ask you to uproot and come with me.”

With a snort, Bahorel rolled his eyes at him. “Enj, Feuilly and I live in your spare bedroom and are with you almost all day every day. What the hell kind of life do you think we have to uproot?”

Bossuet nodded in agreement. “Joly and I work for _you_ , Enjolras. We’re paid by Les Amis, sure, but we’re _your_ trainer and physician. What are we supposed to do here if you’re in LA?”

Murmurs of agreement broke out across the table, and Courfeyrac held up a hand. “So it’s decided that those who need to go will. But I don’t think we all need to.” He looked over at Cosette and Eponine. “I think Combeferre and I both trust our assistants to stay here and carry on with work on this coast. We’ll hire some extra help if you need it.”

“If Cosette stays, I stay,” blurted Marius instantly, blushing.

Feuilly raised an eyebrow at him. “What do you actually do for Les Amis, anyway, Marius?”

Blushing even more furiously, Marius started to stammer a reply, but Combeferre cut him off. “Anyway,” he said loudly, “we’ll work on final arrangements in the coming week and aim to be out in LA by the month’s end, alright?”

Everyone agreed and the meeting broke up, most everyone heading out the door to start making preparations. Courfeyrac was about to say something to Enjolras but got a phone call instead. Enjolras stood, feeling a little dazed. This was the life of an actor, he well knew, but he had never moved to anywhere as long as this before, normally only going on location for a few weeks at most, never actually _living_ in a different place. New York was his home, and it felt odd to think about leaving it for so long a time.

He was so lost in thought that he jumped when Cosette touched his arm gently, a small frown on her face. “What about Grantaire?” she asked in undertones.

“What about Grantaire?” asked Enjolras, confused.

Cosette raised her eyebrow at him. “Is he going to move out to LA with you?”

Blinking in surprise at the question, Enjolras answered instantly, “Of course he is.”

“Don’t you think you should verify that with him?” asked Cosette, frowning deeper at him, her eyes narrowed.

Enjolras frowned as well and was about to respond when Courfeyrac grabbed his other arm, dragging him away. “Just got a call from the director. He’s in town and wants to grab a late lunch.”

“Um, ok,” said Enjolras, glancing at the clock. At this rate, he was going to have to go to straight to the theatre to get ready for tonight’s show after lunch, and he really wanted a chance to talk to Grantaire, especially after his brief exchange with Cosette, but it was also important for him to make a good impression on the director, and blowing off a lunch so he could go chat with his husband was probably not the way to make a good impression. Instead, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Grantaire. “ _Got caught up in a meeting. Won’t make it home before show. Love you and see you tonight._ ”

It wasn’t until Enjolras was in the middle of vocal warm-ups that evening that he realized Grantaire never texted him back.

* * *

 

When Enjolras finally got home from his show that night, he was surprised to see a light on in the kitchen. He had expected Grantaire to at least be in bed, even though he normally didn’t fall asleep until Enjolras got home. Heading into the kitchen, Enjolras stopped short when he saw Grantaire sitting at the table, bottle of wine in front of him. The table was fully set, with the plate in front of Enjolras’s spot full of now-cold food. “Hey,” said Enjolras cautiously. He looked at the dishes set on the table, at candles and flowers in the middle. “You cooked?”

“We were supposed to have lunch together.” Grantaire’s voice was mild, non-accusatory, but it was belied by the look in his eyes.

Frowning, Enjolras tried to remember making plans with Grantaire, but he had been so busy the past week that even if he had made plans, he wasn’t going to remember it now. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Grantaire made a sound that may have been an attempt at laughter. “Sorry?” he repeated. “Whatever are you sorry for, Apollo?”

Enjolras’s eyes slid from the mostly empty wine bottle in front of Grantaire to the already empty ones on the counter and a muscle tightened in his cheek, but he looked down at the floor. “I wanted to talk to you, but I think it should perhaps wait.”

“Why wait?” Grantaire’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Now Enjolras looked pointedly at the bottle in front of Grantaire. “This is a conversation best had when you’re sober.”

Grantaire crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you all day, so I don’t particularly feel like waiting anymore. If you want to talk, talk.”

“Fine,” said Enjolras with a sigh. He sat down across from Grantaire. “I got the part.”

For a second, Grantaire’s face softened and he even looked excited. “Congratulations.” Then his features hardened again. “But there’s obviously something else going on.”

“You know how the show was supposed to be filmed in New York?” At Grantaire’s hesitant nod, Enjolras looked down at the table and took a deep breath. “They’ve moved filming to LA. So I…we’re going to be moving out there for nine months or so.”

Grantaire stared at him, shock and confusion on his face. He took a deep pull from his bottle, and when his eyes met Enjolras’s, there was a flinty anger simmering there. “We?”

Enjolras blinked. “Well, I was assuming you would be joining me. I don’t want to spend nine months away from you.”

Resting his chin on his hand, still staring at Enjolras, Grantaire asked slowly, “And what, pray tell, am I supposed to do in Los Angeles?”

Enjolras hesitated, searching for the right words. The truth was that he wasn’t entirely sure what Grantaire did every day in New York. When Enjolras was home, they were together; when Enjolras was gone and Grantaire was on his own, Enjolras assumed that he painted or drew or did…whatever. Enjolras said carefully, “You can paint in LA…who knows, maybe you’ll even get some new clients, sell some more art?”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Grantaire’s knuckles went white from gripping the bottle in his hand. “You think I can just pick up and move across the country? Completely reestablish myself?” His voice was cold, angry. “Do you know how long it took for me to build a reputation here that wasn’t just based on you? It’s been barely a month since my first gallery show, and you want me to just abandon that?”

“No, of course not,” said Enjolras quickly. “I just thought—“

“No, you didn’t think,” snapped Grantaire, slamming the bottle down on the table. “If you had thought, you would’ve asked me first. You would have discussed this with me. Am I so small a part of your life that you didn’t even consider including me in the discussion?” Without giving Enjolras a chance to answer, Grantaire asked bitterly, “I bet you asked every single person in your production company how they felt about this move, but you couldn’t even fucking ask me, could you?”

Enjolras did not respond, a weight of guilt settling into his chest. Grantaire snorted. “I thought as much.” He stood, grabbing the bottle from the table and heading towards the door. When he was partway there, he turned, lip curled in distaste. “Oh, happy six-month anniversary,” he spat. Then he slammed the bedroom door, leaving Enjolras alone, stunned, at the kitchen table.

* * *

 

Courfeyrac knocked nervously on Jehan’s door, shifting the bouquet of flowers from one hand to the other as he waited for the other man to answer. He knew that moving to LA was the best move for Les Amis at the moment, and he would never have hesitated to go with, except…Jehan.

The poet had wormed his way into Courfeyrac’s life, and he could barely imagine what it would be like without him. Which is why he was here – to talk with him about their future.

Jehan threw the door open, beaming. “Hell-o,” he said slowly, stretching up to kiss Courfeyrac on the mouth. Jehan’s eyes moved down to the flowers in Courfeyrac’s hands and he stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “Purple hyacinth. What did you do?”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” Courfeyrac assured him, though his smile was tight. “Let’s say that they’re a preemptive apology.”

Frowning, Jehan crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Go on.”

Courfeyrac shifted from one foot to the other. “Ah…might I come in? This may be a conversation best had while you’re sitting.”

Still frowning, though he looked less angry and more concerned than anything, Jehan led the way into his living room, perching on the edge of his armchair as Courfeyrac sunk ungracefully into the couch. “What is it, my love?”

Despite everything, Courfeyrac could not help but grin slightly at Jehan’s term of endearment. Then, remembering why he was here, his smile faltered. “I don’t know if Grantaire told you, but Enjolras was up for a part in an HBO series. Lead role. Massive career move for him. Tons of exposure and that money is great.”

“Grantaire mentioned it, yeah,” said Jehan slowly. “I don’t see what that has to do with you apologizing to me…”

Courfeyrac looked down at the flowers still crushed in his hands. “Um, well, we thought the show was going to be filmed here. In New York. But they’ve moved production to LA. So…”

“So you’ll be moving out to LA,” Jehan finished, his voice sounding hollow.

Courfeyrac swallowed hard and nodded, trying to regain his ability to speak. “Well, sort of. I was thinking of splitting my time, actually,” he said slowly, not meeting Jehan’s eyes. “Spending part of my time there and part of my time here.”

Jehan frowned. “Won’t you be needed out there? For Enjolras, or for getting new clients for Les Amis?”

Courfeyrac met Jehan’s eyes, and Jehan was struck by how nervous Courfeyrac looked. “Aren’t I needed here?”

Blinking rapidly against the sudden tears that pricked in his eyes, Jehan shook his head quickly. “You can’t make this choice based on me. This is a great opportunity to grow Les Amis. If you’re needed there, then you need to go. I…we’ll be fine.”

“Will we?” Courfeyrac breathed, his voice, normally loud, was impossibly quiet. “This past year has been more amazing than anything, but we have to make a decision about where we go from here.”

“We can do the long-distance thing…” Jehan offered half-heartedly.

Courfeyrac snorted. “You can do the long-distance thing.” He reached out to tuck a lock of Jehan’s hair behind his ear. “You know me better than that, love.”

Jehan grabbed his hand, holding it against his cheek, his eyes dark with sincerity. “Yes, I do know you better than that. And I trust you. If you’re worried that you’ll cheat on me or hurt me, I don’t believe you will.”

Stiffening slightly, Courfeyrac looked at him sadly. “I love you. You know that. But nine months is an awfully long time, love. Especially for me. I can’t be trusted not to do something stupid. You’ve made me a far better man than I ever used to be, but without you around…”

“I have faith in you,” whispered Jehan, reaching up to kiss Courfeyrac on the cheek.

Courfeyrac shook his head slightly. “Why?”

“Because I love you.” The simplicity of Jehan’s words underlined their honesty. “And because I don’t want this to end. If you want to split your time between there and here, that’s your decision, love, but I think we can make this work regardless. I _want_ to make this work, regardless.”

Leaning forward so that his forehead rested against Jehan’s, Courfeyrac smiled slightly. “What in the world did I do to deserve you?”

Jehan laced his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair, tugging them through the dark curls. “I could ask myself the same thing,” he said softly, kissing Courfeyrac on the nose.

Courfeyrac grinned slightly at that before capturing Jehan’s mouth with his own and kissing him languidly. After a few minutes, he stopped, his breathing just beginning to sound ragged. “So we’re going to try and make this work, huh? Long distance and everything?”

“Well, I’m certainly not ready to give up on us, so, yes.” Jehan’s tone was mild, but there was steel in his voice. It was one of the reasons why Courfeyrac loved Jehan so much – the poet was small-statured and seemed like he had his head in the clouds most of the time, but his daydreams were backed with iron, and wherever his head might be, his feet were always firmly planted. Besides which, when he wanted to be, Jehan could be just plain intimidating.

With a sigh, Courfeyrac kissed Jehan once more, a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I hope you know that you’re the only one I’d ever try this with,” he said softly. “And yet you’re the only one I’m most afraid of hurting. You’ve changed me, Prouvaire. I don’t ever want to be without you.”

“Nor I, you,” whispered Jehan. “i carry your heart with me(i carry it in  
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere  
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done  
by only me is your doing,my darling)  
                                                 i fear ”

Courfeyrac half-smiled. “Cummings?” he guessed.

Jehan responded with another kiss. “You’re getting good at this.”

“It helps that you tend to reward me with kisses,” Courfeyrac informed him, pulling the poet onto his lap and running his fingers through the hair that had escaped from Jehan’s braid. “But I did mean it – you’ve changed me. So much for the better.”

Entwining his finger’s with Courfeyrac’s, Jehan brushed a gentle kiss onto Courfeyrac’s forehead. “And I’ll continue to change you. And you’ll continue to change me. For the better. So long as we’re together. Which, if I have my way, we will be. Forever.”

Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly. “Forever?” he asked quietly. “Is that a hint that you want to get married?”

Jehan shook his head, leaning against Courfeyrac’s chest. “No. I’m not opposed to the idea, necessarily, but not right now. This works for us, and I don’t see any need to change it.”

Nuzzling the top of Jehan’s head, Courfeyrac pressed a soft kiss to the whorl of hair on his crown. “It does work. We work. And I love you. And even though this might be the worst idea that either of us have ever had, I’m willing to try, so long as it’s with you.”

“It can’t be that bad of an idea,” said Jehan mildly.

“Oh?”

Jehan turned to smile up at him, mischief flashing in his eyes. “I’m the one who came up with it. Now if it had been _your_ idea…”

Courfeyrac cut off his giggling with a kiss.

* * *

 

An hour after Grantaire had disappeared into their bedroom, Enjolras sat on the couch in the living room, book in hand. He hadn’t read a word of it, instead casting concerned glances at the closed bedroom door every few minutes. Grantaire had yet to make a reappearance after their fight earlier, and Enjolras was getting concerned. He had hoped giving the other man time to cool down would be enough, but it did not appear to be the case. Suddenly, the bedroom door opened, and Grantaire stood there, swaying slightly, his eyes bloodshot – though whether from the booze or crying, Enjolras didn’t know. Enjolras stood, tentative, looking carefully at Grantaire. “Taire?” he asked softly.

“’M going out,” said Grantaire roughly, avoiding Enjolras’s gaze.

Enjolras frowned deeply. “You’re drunk, Grantaire,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t go out like this.”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed, and he spat, “You have no right telling me where I should or shouldn’t go. You have no right to command me at all.”

“It’s not a command,” sighed Enjolras, suddenly exhausted, wanting nothing more than to lie in bed with his husband curled next to him, this entire fiasco forgotten. “I know better than to try and command you, Grantaire. It didn’t come out right earlier, and I’m sorry. Just…please. Stay with me.”

They both knew he meant more than for this night.

Grantaire was still frowning, shaking his head slightly, when suddenly he slumped against the doorframe. Enjolras was on his feet in an instant. “Taire?” he said, concern sharpening his voice (because even when blackout drunk, Grantaire is more stable than some people when sober).

“En-ras,” slurred Grantaire, sliding down the door frame until he was sitting – barely –  on the floor. “Why’s the room spinning?”

Enjolras knelt at his side, worriedly checking him over. He noticed for the first time the layer of sweat on Grantaire’s face, and the way the dark-haired man’s eyes seemed unable to focus. None of which came from just alcohol, and all of which could really only mean one thing. “Taire, what did you take?” Enjolras’s voice was jagged with panic.

Grantaire shook himself slightly. “Didn’t take anything,” he said, voice strangely muffled. “Just my pills.”

Enjolras looked over at the pill bottles that lined the top of the dresser, pills he had watched Grantaire take a hundred times before, pills which, if he recalled reading the labels correctly, were not meant to be taken with alcohol. “Which pills, Taire?”

“Don’t remember.” Grantaire’s voice was barely more than a whisper, and his eyes were glassy. “Don’t be upset. You shouldn’t be upset. We can go to LA if you want.”

If Enjolras hadn’t been trying so hard not to completely lose his head, he would’ve laughed at Grantaire’s words. Leave it to Grantaire to try and comfort _him_ in these moments. “Don’t worry about it right now,” said Enjolras soothingly, reaching in his pocket for his cell phone. “Just stay awake and keep talking to me, alright?”

While Grantaire nodded slowly, Enjolras dialed Joly’s number. “Joly? It’s Enjolras. Grantaire was drunk and took one of his pills – or all of his pills, I don’t know and he can’t tell me – and now he’s really out of it and I’m freaking out.”

“What kind of pills?” asked Joly calmly, and Enjolras wanted to close his eyes and weep, because thank God for Joly who, though he might diagnose himself with a new and rare form of cancer every other day, was ultimately incredibly level-headed.

So instead of weeping, Enjolras took a deep – if shaky – breath, and told him, “Um, for anxiety, for depression, for his bipolar? If he only took his normal nighttime pills than it should be one for depression and one for anxiety.”

Enjolras could almost hear the nod from Joly as he confirmed what the physician probably already knew. “Do you think he took too many of them, or just took them when he wasn’t supposed to?”

In truth, Enjolras hadn’t even considered the first option, and he blanched at the thought. “I…I don’t know. I don’t think he took too many. How…how would I know?”

If Joly thought it at all odd that Enjolras did not flat out deny that Grantaire would’ve done such a thing, he didn’t say it. Instead, he asked, “Are there any other symptoms? Vomiting, nausea, fever, shaking, anything like that?”

“No, nothing. Just slurring his words and having difficulty staying awake.” Enjolras looked over at Grantaire and, seeing his head lolling, half-shouted, “C’mon, Grantaire, stay awake.”

“’M sorry,” murmured Grantaire, burrowing his head further into Enjolras’s shoulder. “M’eyes are really heavy.”

There was a pause from Joly’s end, then the doctor said slowly, “Believe it or not, Enjolras, it doesn’t sound too serious. Nothing life-threatening, and probably nothing you need to take him to the hospital for. You’ll need to monitor him, though, make sure there aren’t any new symptoms that arise. Keep him awake as long as possible, give him water if you can. If he falls asleep, that’s fine, but again, keep monitoring him. He should be fine in the morning. Probably with a killer headache, but fine.”

Enjolras let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. “Thanks, Joly,” he said quietly before hanging up and sliding the phone back in his pocket. “Grantaire?” he said softly. The dark-haired man looked at him blearily. “I’m going to kitchen for something. Can you stay awake for a couple of minutes without me?”

Once Grantaire nodded, even managing to sit up a little straighter, Enjolras slipped out of the room to grab a glass of water. He stood in the kitchen, hands gripping the countertop so hard that had it not been made from solid granite, he may have broken it.

Everything Jehan had ever warned him about seemed to crash over him in a sudden, soul-crushing moment, and Enjolras, though not prone to panicking, was having as close to a panic attack as he had ever had. He could have lost Grantaire, one way or another, and that knowledge was almost more than Enjolras could bear.

Taking one shuddering breath after another – trying his damndest not to break down and sob – Enjolras took as long as dared before he grabbed the water glass and headed back to Grantaire.

* * *

 

Grantaire blinked blearily against the sun coming in through the window. His mouth felt like cotton and his head felt as if he had the full percussion section of a marching band currently in it. Blinking again, he tried to sit up and moaned when all it seemed to do was make the marching band in his head move double-time.

Enjolras was at his side in an instant, face swimming into view as it blocked the sunlight. “Grantaire? Are you alright?”

“M’fine,” mumbled Grantaire, still struggling to sit up. “I’ve got a killer fucking headache – fuck – but I’m fine.” Then he looked at Enjolras, really looked at him, saw the dark circles that rimmed too-bright, too-red eyes and felt guilt gnaw at his stomach. “Didn’t you sleep?”

Enjolras shook his head wordlessly and gave him a shaky smile that Grantaire did not buy for a moment. “Fuck, Enj, I’m sorry,” he whispered, pulling the blond man down onto the bed and wrapping his arms as best as he could around him.

Enjolras rubbed Grantaire’s back soothingly. “I’m sorry, too,” he said softly. “So sorry, Taire. I’m an idiot, I didn’t think, and it all came out wrong, and you—”

He cut himself off abruptly and Grantaire shifted uncomfortably, feeling himself flush slightly. “It was an accident,” he whispered, not meeting Enjolras’s eyes. “I didn’t realize how much I had had to drink. I promise. I wasn’t trying to…”

“I know,” whispered Enjolras, pulling Grantaire closer to him, and resting his cheek against Grantaire’s head as he continued stroking Grantaire’s back. “I know.”

Grantaire sniffled slightly, then added, trying desperately to shift the conversation, “Los Angeles could be fun, right?”

Enjolras pressed a kiss to his temple. “As long as you’re with me, everything will be fine.” He closed his eyes. “I love you, Taire.”

“Where you go, I go,” said Grantaire softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Enjolras’s collarbone, a spot that would normally make the blond man shiver with delight but instead only made the breath hitch in his throat in a way that sounds all too much like a sob.

“No,” whispered Enjolras, resolute and certain. “Where you go, I will always follow. I can’t live without you, Taire.”

Grantaire kisses him again, on the mouth this time, and harder. “You’ll never have to,” he promised fiercely, though whether he’s promising it to Enjolras or to himself is anyone’s guess. “You’ll never have to.”


	11. Act II, Scene 2 - "Unusual Way"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimer plus the added caveat from last time, plus additional caveat: As with mental illness, the way that I portray drug use/abuse/addiction is based solely on my own experiences and should not be taken as representative of just about anything. If you have any questions, comments, concerns about how I've portrayed something, hit me up in the comments and we can chat, or if you'd rather do it privately, send me a message on [Tumblr](http://kjack89.tumblr.com).

Act II, Scene 2 – “Unusual Way” – _Nine_

“ _Though at times it appears I won’t stay_  
 _I never go_  
 _Special to me in my life_  
 _Since the first day that I met you_  
 _How could I ever forget you?_  
 _Once you touched my soul_  
 _In a very unusual way_  
 _You’ve made me whole_ ”

Grantaire stood in LAX at the baggage claim, waiting for his bags to come down. He was humming absentmindedly to himself and started when arms slipped around his waist and Enjolras nuzzled his neck from behind. “Are you humming Miley Cyrus?” breathed Enjolras into Grantaire’s ear.

A small smile flashed across Grantaire’s face. “You know damn well that I like to pretend that song is sung by someone else. I believe it’s on my iPod under ‘Hate this Bitch.’” Enjolras chuckled and pressed a gentle kiss to his neck, laughing even louder when Grantaire flinched. “That tickles,” complained Grantaire, but he leaned in to Enjolras’s embrace regardless.

“So…welcome to LA,” said Enjolras softly, turning Grantaire around so that they were facing each other. “Are you sure you’re ok with being here? With living here?”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s a little late to be asking that, Apollo.” But he knew that Enjolras was only seeking assurance, so he reached up to kiss him gently on the lips. “As long as I’m with you, it doesn’t matter where we are.”

Smiling in return, Enjolras kissed him back, deepening the kiss so that it was just approaching inappropriate before pulling away. “Good.” Then he straightened and looked past Grantaire. “I’m worried about Courf,” he told Grantaire in undertones.

Grantaire cocked his head slightly. “Because of him and Jehan? I wouldn’t be. They’re basically the perfect couple.”

Enjolras put on a falsely hurt face. “ _They’re_ the perfect couple? What about us?”

Rolling his eyes, Grantaire reached up to kiss Enjolras gently. “We’re amazing. You know we are. But we’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “We’re also an enigma. Two mismatched halves that shouldn’t belong together but somehow do. Whereas Courfeyrac and Jehan…They’re more like traditional, classic lovers. Everything about them just seems to work and make sense. If anyone can endure through all this it will be them.”

Though Enjolras’s eyes softened, he still looked slightly unconvinced. Grantaire touched the creases on Enjolras’s forehead. “Stop worrying. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Enjolras snorted. “Yes, because I am vain enough to care about that over the happiness and well-being of one of my oldest friends.” Still, Grantaire’s comment made him smile, and he leaned down to kiss Grantaire.

Suddenly, he felt someone punch him in the arm. Pulling away from Grantaire, he turned to glare at Courfeyrac, who was frowning back at him. “Paparazzi,” said Courfeyrac shortly, with a jerk of his head toward the photographers pushing their way toward them.

Grantaire stiffened next to Enjolras, who just smiled tiredly and reached down to take Grantaire’s hand. When Grantaire shot him a look, Enjolras just shrugged at him. “We’re married. I think the cat’s out of the bag on the fact that I’m kind of fond of you.” Leaning down so his breath tickled Grantaire’s ear, Enjolras added, a wicked gleam in his eyes, “Besides which, may as well give them a bit of a show, no?”

Though Grantaire smiled slightly as Enjolras kissed him, he still pulled away quickly, flushing at the multitude of camera flashes. “This is going to happen more often out here, isn’t it?” he muttered, though Enjolras, who was busy lifting their bags off the baggage claim belt, appeared not to hear him.

Combeferre, who had appeared at their side, his own bags behind him, gave Grantaire a sympathetic smile. “You’ll get used to it,” Combeferre told him in undertones.

Grantaire just frowned as he followed Courfeyrac and Enjolras out of the airport. “I don’t really have a choice about that, now do I?”

* * *

As different as LA was from New York, it did not take long for Enjolras and Grantaire to settle in to a routine. Perhaps the biggest difference was the house they were renting, which, though modest by Beverly Hills standards, could still be classified as a mansion, with its own guesthouse, which was shared, of course, by Bahorel and Feuilly. “I’m surprised that the gossip magazines haven’t written about that yet,” remarked Grantaire on their third day in LA as he browsed through the latest gossip websites over breakfast. “You’d think they’d all be screaming about a ménage a quatre or something.”

From his position at the stove where he was making himself an omelet, Enjolras chucked in agreement. “It would make for quite the scandal, I suppose. Though maybe they’re worried about what Bahorel would do to them if they wrote that he was gay.” He slid the omelet onto a plate and set it down on the kitchen table. “What are the tabloids writing about us these days, anyway? Anything exciting since moving out here?”

“Not too much,” said Grantaire, taking a sip of coffee. “The usual, actually. Pictures of us at LAX. Oh, we should get a copy of this one – it’s cute.”

Enjolras wrapped his arms around Grantaire and rested his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder as he read through the site as well. He snorted at the headline on the gossip site. “Still very much in love, hmm?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of Grantaire’s hair before sitting down across from him to start eating. “I can almost taste their disappointment.”

“Well, you know us,” said Grantaire dryly, clicking through to another site. “We’re boring. Being happy is boring.” He scanned through the next article, his face falling as he read it. “Now, _this_ is far from boring.”

Enjolras straightened. “Let me see,” he commanded.

Grantaire quickly shut the computer. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, draining his cup of coffee and standing abruptly, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

Enjolras made no move to stop him, instead opening the computer as soon as he was out of the room and scanning the article.

“Trouble in Paradise? Rumor has it that Grantaire Moreau was less than thrilled to be moving out to LA with his hubby. Despite the cute photos snapped at LAX, we sense some unresolved tension between the happy couple, especially with Grantaire’s pre-Enjolras history. As our longtime readers know, if there’s one thing we like more than a Hollywood romance, it’s a Hollywood breakup. We’ll be monitoring this situation closely, and as soon as Enjolras Moreau is back on the market, you’ll be the first to know, ladies.”

Enjolras carefully set the laptop on the kitchen table so as to not break it. His hands were shaking with barely restrained fury. _As soon as he was back on the market_? The air of inevitability written into that article made his blood boil. And to bring Grantaire’s history into it, as if that had any impact whatsoever on their relationship…

Taking several deep breaths, Enjolras slowly unclenched his fists, trying to control the rage coursing through his veins. If he was this upset about it, he could only imagine how Grantaire must feel. He headed upstairs to their bathroom, knocking tentatively on the door. “Taire?” he called softly, opening the door a crack.

Grantaire was huddle on the floor the bathtub, his knees drawn up to his chest, the water cascading around him. “Oh, Grantaire,” sighed Enjolras, stepping into the tub and kneeling down to pull the dark-haired man in his arms.

Looking up, eyes red, Grantaire frowned at him. “Your clothes are getting wet,” he said softly, but his arms slid around Enjolras’s waist, holding Enjolras against him.

“They’ll dry,” shrugged Enjolras dismissively, pulling away just enough to look into Grantaire’s eyes. “I read the article. Are you alright?”

Grantaire half-shrugged. “I just don’t understand how this is so easy for you,” he whispered, resting his head against Enjolras’s chest. “Knowing that there are people out there who actively want our marriage to fall apart.”

“You think it’s easy for me?” Enjolras asked, his voice strained. “It’s so far from easy for me. It takes just about every ounce of self-control I possess not to hunt down every single person who writes an article like that, every asshole who tweets or blogs something stupid, and beat the hell out of them.” He stroked Grantaire’s back soothingly, running one hand through Grantaire’s wet curls. “But then I remember that I have you. And as long as I have you, it doesn’t matter what they write. Because what we have is so much more than they can possibly understand. And it’s strong enough to last through anything.”

Grantaire closed his eyes. “I wish I could believe that,” he mumbled.

Closing his eyes for a brief moment as well, Enjolras pressed a kiss to the top of Grantaire’s head, trying to pretend that the wetness on his face was solely from the shower. “I wish you could too,” he whispered, his voice quiet but fierce. “But until you do, I’ll believe it enough for both of us. I promise.”

* * *

An unfortunate side effect of being in LA was that Enjolras was now obligated to attend many Hollywood events, including movie premieres for films he wasn’t even in. For some reason, Grantaire was always dragged along to these events, even though they still followed Courfeyrac’s rule from their first date, wherein Grantaire didn’t walk the red carpet with Enjolras. On one such of these occasions, Grantaire stared moodily at his reflection in their bedroom mirror, tugging on the cuff of his jacket. “I’m still not allowed to walk the red carpet with you?” he asked Enjolras, trying not to care about the note of whining that crept into his voice.

Enjolras, searching distractedly for something on top of the dresser, spared him a brief, bemused glance. “I didn’t think you wanted to walk the red carpet with me.” He turned his attention back to the dresser. “Have you seen my other cufflink?”

Grantaire plopped down on the bed, arms crossed in front of his chest, hoping that he wasn’t pouting, even though he felt like pouting. “I don’t. Red carpets are the worst.” _I just want_ you _to want me to walk the red carpet with you_. He didn’t say those words out loud, but he glared at Enjolras’s back as if just thinking loudly enough would clue the blond into his thoughts.

Of course, it didn’t work, and Enjolras, having found his missing cufflink, did nothing more than brush an unfocused kiss across Grantaire’s forehead before tugging him out the door, complaining that they were going to be late.

They weren’t. They never were. Enjolras insisted on arriving to movie premieres a good hour before necessary, which on the one hand meant that he and Grantaire could spend a good amount of time together inside the theatre, away from the prying eyes of the paparazzi. On the other hand, getting there so early practically guaranteed that he was one of the few celebrities on the red carpet, which meant every photographer and reporter wanted a picture and interview with him.

Which left Grantaire standing by himself, slouching against a garbage can and glowering at Enjolras, who was not even halfway down the red carpet. He felt someone touch his elbow and flinched. “Which one’s yours?” asked a smoky-sounding voice in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire looked over to see a middle-aged woman in an evening gown smiling sympathetically at him. “Sorry?” he said politely.

“I asked which one was yours,” she repeated, gesturing toward the red carpet. “That one, there? That’s mine.”

Following her hand, Grantaire saw she was indicating one of the other ridiculously handsome movie stars on the red carpet, who might be appearing in the film that was premiering – Grantaire didn’t even both trying to keep all the movies straight anymore. “Your, uh, boyfriend?” asked Grantaire awkwardly.

She let out a throaty chuckle. “No, no. My husband. Going on fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years?” Grantaire echoed, trying not to sound as awed as he felt. In truth, though, while the woman next to him was comely enough, she did not look like she belonged with that guy, and especially not for fifteen years. Looking back and forth between the two, he couldn’t help but ask, a little bitterly, “And you still aren’t allowed to walk the red carpet with him?”

Shrugging, the woman pulled out a cigarette and lit it, blowing the smoke in the direction of the photographers. “He always asks. Always offers. But it’s _them_ who don’t want me there.” There was no doubt she was referring to the photographers and reporters currently scrabbling over each other to get a word with her husband. “It only took once or twice of me being shoved aside so they can get a solo shot of him for me to realize that it wasn’t worth it.”

Grantaire’s mouth twisted wryly. “Still sucks, though.”

She smiled at him again, a little bit of sadness mixing with the sympathy there. “Yes, it does. It will get better, though. And if it doesn’t, at least we have the marginal perks of being associated with a celebrity to fall back on, right?”

Intrigued, Grantaire turned and raised an eyebrow at her. “What perks are these?”

The smile she gave him this time was full and genuine. “We get things for free,” she practically purred, stretching out her hand as if for a handshake. Taken aback slightly, Grantaire hesitantly took her proffered hand, doubly surprised when she slipped him something. She winked at him. “If you take things too seriously, you’ll never make it.”

Then she was gone, walking arm-in-arm with her husband into the theatre. Grantaire looked down at what she had slipped him. It was a small baggie filled with white powder. _Cocaine, probably_? He frowned and was about to throw it in the garbage when he remembered what she had said about taking things too seriously. And she had lasted for fifteen years in this business. Maybe there was something to be said for her advice. So instead of throwing it out, he slipped it into his pocket. Just in case.

* * *

Five hours later, just in case has turned into a necessity. They were at the second of three after parties that Enjolras was committed to attending, and Grantaire wanted to gouge his eyeballs out from boredom. He fulfilled his husbandly duties, standing next to Enjolras as he talked with this producer or that director, trying to keep the scowl off of his face every time someone asked him if he was in the industry.

When the eighteenth person asked him in simpering, falsely sweet tones what he did for a living, Grantaire gritted his teeth and barely kept from rolling his eyes before forcing a wide and obviously fake smile onto his face. “I’m thinking of getting into the pornography industry, actually,” he said brightly. “Enjolras has been giving me plenty of practice.”

The woman to which he was talking – some producer, or producer’s wife, he couldn’t remember – blushed, looking vaguely scandalized. “He’s joking,” said Enjolras quickly, a strain evident in his voice. “Grantaire is an artist. Now, if you could excuse us for a moment.”

Grantaire managed to smile sweetly over his shoulder at the still discomfited woman even as Enjolras marched him away, Enjolras’s hand holding on to his arm with a vice-like grip. “What the hell is your problem?” snapped Enjolras once they had a modicum of privacy.

Eyes flashing up to meet his, Grantaire started to snap back in return until he saw the exhaustion and frustration on Enjolras’s face, and the retort died in his throat. He knew as well as any that these events were not Enjolras’s favorite, were a mere expectation and formality that he would gladly forgo if he could. Grantaire looked down at the floor and swallowed hard. “I’m sorry,” he said hollowly. “I just…”

He trailed off and Enjolras touched his arm again, gentler this time. “What?” he asked, voice concerned. “What’s wrong?”

For a long moment, Grantaire just looked into Enjolras’s eyes, a million and half things that he could say on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he swallowed and muttered, “It’s nothing. I just need a drink.”

Enjolras frowned deeply but did not try and stop him as Grantaire made a beeline for the bar. Once at the bar, Grantaire ordered a shot of whiskey, neat, and drank it in one go, hoping that the alcohol would quench what felt like the baggie burning a hole in his pocket.

Grantaire had never been that big on recreational drugs, in part because he’d been on prescription ones for so long, and knew how badly those alone could fuck a person up. He had smoked a little pot, sure, though that barely counted, and one time he’d taken ecstasy, but never anything like this. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like, and, most importantly, if it would stop him from feeling like shit at the moment.

So after another shot, he headed to the bathroom, locking himself in a stall and pulling the baggie from his pocket with shaking hands. Looking at it dubiously, he shrugged and whispered to himself, “Why the hell not?”

He had watched enough bad TV shows and movies to get the gist of what he was supposed to do, and, wincing at the certain lack of cleanliness – and thankful beyond belief that Joly could not see him right now, for multiple reasons, though he couldn’t help but wonder if the doctor would be more concerned about him snorting cocaine or snorting cocaine off of what was probably a less than sterile surface – he made a few lines of the powder on the lid of the toilet. He pulled out his wallet, rolled a dollar bill then bent and, trying to ignore every instinct that was telling him this was a bad idea, snorted up some of the powder.

The immediate effect was what felt like fire in his nostril. He pinched his nose and winced, his eyes watering. Well, that was one way to numb the pain, he supposed. He really couldn’t concentrate on how shitty he was feeling when it felt like someone had shoved a burning ember up his nostril.

After a few minutes, however, the burning had subsided, and he felt a new sensation spreading throughout his body. He felt…not _happy_. That wasn’t quite the right word for it. Content, maybe? But that didn’t nearly begin to cover the rush of emotions and energy he felt coursing through him…

Alive. He felt alive. He could feel his pulse racing, could feel every breath he took, could only _imagine_ what it would be like to feel Enjolras’s hands on him right now. He felt completely alive for the first time in a long time. And he wanted nothing more than to go jump Enjolras and show him that.

In the meantime, though, there were two lines of cocaine still on the toilet lid, and Grantaire saw no need to face the crowd outside the bathroom again before he had finished those as well. And if there was a small part of him that noticed how completely and utterly fucked up it was to only feel this alive with an illegal substance coursing through his veins, well, it was quickly silenced in the burn from the next line of coke.

* * *

Enjolras rolled his shoulders slightly and tried to relax, though his eyes couldn’t help but flicker through the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Grantaire, even if he was slouched in a corner looking sullen, as he so often did at these events. He couldn’t help but grip the mostly untouched glass of champagne in his hands a little tighter, his knuckles almost white in frustration. Something was bothering Grantaire, and whether it was just a culmination of small things – most of which was caused by moving out to LA – or something larger, Enjolras wished the dark-haired man would tell him what it was before it ate him alive.

Because after the disastrous announcement of moving out the LA – Jehan hadn’t spoken to him for almost a week following that – Enjolras had done a bit more research on bipolar disorder, and had a sneaking suspicion that Grantaire might be sliding into a depressive cycle, which would certainly explain some things.

Since Jehan was refusing to talk to him, Enjolras had done the next best thing and contacted Joly. Well, really, he had shown up at Joly and Bossuet’s unannounced one afternoon on his way to the theatre, because the thought had been niggling in the back of his mind and he knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on the performance with this weighing on him.

So he had asked Feuilly to stop at Joly’s, run up the stairs, and knocked on the door before he could stop himself. Thankfully, Joly was in, though he answered the door while still reading from the massive text in his hands – _Medical Muses: Hysteria in Nineteenth-Century Paris_. “Enjolras,” he had said, surprised, blinking at him. “Come in. What’s wrong? Are you feeling alright?”

Following Joly into the living room and taking a set on the proffered couch, Enjolras had quickly reassured him, “Everything’s fine. Well, I’m feeling fine, anyway, it’s not that. It’s…uh, it’s Grantaire.”

“Ah.” There had been no surprise in Joly’s voice, which made Enjolras narrow his eyes in suspicion. Joly had quickly stated, “Jehan came and talked to me, way back when. Before you even got married. He thought that as your physician, it was only right that I be…made aware, shall we say? Of certain things in Grantaire’s medical history.”

Enjolras had flushed and looked down. “He probably wasn’t wrong,” he had muttered, running a distracted hand through his hair. “I think Grantaire might be heading for a depressive cycle. And I’m not entirely sure what, if anything, I can do about it.”

Joly had sat back in his chair, looking concerned. “Have you discussed this with his psychiatrist?”

Shaking his head, Enjolras had frowned. “No. Grantaire won’t let me go with him when he has his doctor’s appointments. Says it’s boring stuff that I wouldn’t be interested in.”

This made Joly look even graver than he previously did. “You should really talk to Grantaire’s doctor about this,” he had said gently. “Or at least Grantaire. There’s not much I can really tell you. Psychology isn’t my field, and every case is so individualized…”

“Can you just tell me that he’ll be ok?” The words had flown out of Enjolras’s mouth before he could stop them.

Joly had hesitated. “I…If he continues taking his medicine properly, and continues seeing his doctor regularly to adjust his doses accordingly, medically speaking I don’t see any reason why this would be different than his past cycles.”

With that, Enjolras had thanked Joly and left, knowing that this was as good of reassurance as he was probably going to get. It helped alleviate the more immediate worry that Enjolras had felt, though he vowed to keep a close eye on Grantaire.

Enjolras had watched Grantaire like a hawk throughout the move, but other than longer and more sullen silences than normal, he had not spotted anything really amiss. But he also couldn’t ignore the feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was just plain _wrong_.

Which was why he barely paid attention to whomever stepped up to talk to him next, shaking the man’s hand automatically, his mind a million miles away. If there was something truly the matter with Grantaire, he’d know, right?

* * *

Grantaire sidled up next to Enjolras and laced his fingers in with Enjolras’s, cutting the blond man off mid-sentence by kissing him. Whomever Enjolras had been speaking with looked slightly affronted for a moment, then turned to leave them to their impromptu make out session. “Hey,” said Enjolras after a long moment, his breath a little ragged.

“Hey,” Grantaire returned with an easy grin, leaning in to capture Enjolras’s lips with his own again.

Though Enjolras kissed him back, when next they broke apart, he was looking at Grantaire with a slightly concerned look in his eyes. “Just how much did you have to drink? You were gone for awhile.”

Grantaire flashed him a quick grin. “I had just enough to get me through. I promise.” Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unconvinced, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Just kiss me, you fool.”

Enjolras complied, kissing Grantaire with a heady, open-mouthed kiss. After a long moment though, Enjolras pulled away, still looking concerned. “You’re happy here, with me, aren’t you, Taire?” Grantaire rolled his eyes and kissed him back in answer. Pulling away again, Enjolras asked softly, “You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

“Of course,” said Grantaire instantly, going in for another kiss, trying to ignore the pounding of his heart and the burn of the cocaine still in his nostril. Because he was happy with Enjolras – it was never Enjolras that was the problem. So he was happy for the most part, and when he wasn’t, well…he now had at least a temporary solution, trying hard not to think about the small, partly-full baggie still in his pocket.


	12. Act II, Scene 3 - "Coffee"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late! Writing actual papers has gotten in the way. I'd promise cuddles and happiness in this chapter to make up for my tardiness, but let's be real, I'd just be lying (though there is some cute Courf/Jehan in the beginning, so we can pretend?)
> 
> Usual disclaimer(s) apply as always. All mistakes are sadly my own.

Act II, Scene 3 – “Coffee” – _See What I Wanna See_

“ _Thank God for the morphine_  
 _Thank God for my dealer_  
 _And for the vodka that mellows the coke_

 _Yeah, I could use a little help_  
 _I could use a little hope_  
 _I could use a little something that has worth_ ”

Courfeyrac stood at the baggage claim at LAX, holding a sign that read “PROUVAIRE” on it in neon letters. He had even gotten Grantaire to decorate it with some pictures of flowers, choosing pink roses and stargazer lilies to symbolize how much he had missed Jehan. Grantaire had been surprisingly willing to do it, not even mocking Courfeyrac as he usually would have. Courfeyrac chalked this up to the fact that Grantaire was almost as excited to see Jehan as Courf himself was.

Almost.

But the past few months had been a completely different experience for Courfeyrac. Not only was he in legitimately his longest relationship of all time, but it was his first long-distance engagement of any variety, and it had been different than he had expected. He had expected to cheat on Jehan within a month of being gone, not because he wanted to, but because he was an insatiable flirt who, when given the choice between someone several thousand miles away and someone 5 feet away, would be guided by something far more animalistic than emotions.

He could not have been more wrong.

It was as if other men (or women – Courfeyrac was rarely picky) no longer existed to him. Yes, he met some very gorgeous individuals in LA, and he could admire that, but he no more wanted to go home with them than he did with Combeferre or Enjolras.

Instead, he lived for the phone calls he had with Jehan, for their Skyping, even counting down on a calendar for when Jehan was coming out to visit. Far from losing interest in the man, he found himself more in love than ever.

Which was why he had cleared his schedule to drive himself to the airport – ok, Feuilly had driven him while Enjolras was at work, but it wasn’t Courfeyrac’s fault that he didn’t have a car, and besides, he had rented a limo to take him and Jehan back to his place from the airport to spare Feuilly what would undoubtedly take place in the backseat (just because he hadn’t had sex with anyone did NOT mean that his sex drive had disappeared) – to wait for the man that he had not seen in person for two months.

He caught sight of the familiar face through the crowd, and willed himself not to run towards him. Jehan’s face broke into a wide grin upon seeing him there and Courfeyrac gave up all pretense, dropping the sign on the ground to scoop the smaller man up into a bone crunching embrace. “Jehan, Jehan, Jehan,” he chanted into Jehan’s ear, delighted when Jehan chuckled and kissed his cheek, wrapping his legs around Courfeyrac’s waist.

They stayed that way for a long time, before Courfeyrac finally set Jehan on the ground, if only to pull him in for a proper kiss. Jehan kissed him enthusiastically for a minute before finally pulling away. “Hi,” he said, a little breathlessly, his eyes sparkling.

“Hi to you, too,” grinned Courfeyrac, feeling as if all the tension in his body had just slipped away. “It’s really, really good to see you.”

Jehan grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. “It’s really, really good to see you, too. Even if we did just Skype last week.”

Smiling down at him, Courfeyrac said, “That’s different and you know it. Now c’mon, let’s go grab your bag.” They started to walk away but Jehan bent to pick up the sign from where Courfeyrac had dropped it on the floor. Courfeyrac grinned. “Do you like that? I made it for you. Well, I mean, Grantaire painted it, but I picked out the flowers I wanted on it.”

Jehan’s brow was furrowed as he looked closely at the sign. “You said that Grantaire painted this?”

“Um, yes?” said Courfeyrac, raising an eyebrow as Jehan’s suddenly serious expression. “Is there a problem?”

Looking up, Jehan smiled quickly, though it was a tight smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “No, no problem. It’s just not exactly his usual style.”

Courfeyrac could honestly not recall if he had ever really seen Grantaire’s art, so he just nodded mutely, unsure of what to say. Jehan smiled again, a real smile this time, gentle and sweet, as he laced his fingers with Courfeyrac’s. “It’s nothing. I’ll talk to Grantaire about it when I see him tomorrow.”

This prompted another eyebrow raise from Courfeyrac. “Tomorrow? I thought you were going to go see him this afternoon.”

“Well, I had originally planned on it,” said Jehan slowly, looking up at Courfeyrac through his eyelashes and biting his lower lip in a very distracting way. “But I thought that we might spend all day together instead. Doing…whatever.”

Courfeyrac grinned down at him and leaned in for a kiss. He pulled away just far enough to breathe against Jehan’s lips, “I think that can be arranged.”

He had scheduled four meetings for that afternoon when Jehan was supposed to be out with Grantaire, in addition to having a bunch of paperwork that he needed to get caught up on. He undoubtedly would have twenty voicemails from this morning alone. He didn’t even want to think about how many emails he had waiting for him.

But in that moment, Courfeyrac found that he didn’t care.

* * *

At eight o’clock the next morning, Jehan stood in front of Enjolras and Grantaire’s place, arms crossed in front of his chest. The early start time had been suggested by Enjolras, who was supposed to leave around nine for work and wanted to visit with Jehan as well before he left for the day.

It was Grantaire who opened the door, however, looking rumpled still from sleep. Still, he grinned at Jehan. “How’s it hanging, Prouvaire?”

Jehan relaxed just slightly, pulling Grantaire into a hug. “Oh you know me. Same old, same old.” He pulled away to examine Grantaire at arm’s distance, lips slightly pursed. “How are _you_?”

Grantaire flashed him a snarky grin and winked. “Same old, same old. C’mon in. Enjolras is in the kitchen.”

Jehan followed Grantaire to the kitchen, where Enjolras was sipping coffee at the table and reading the newspaper. He looked up and smiled brightly upon seeing them. “Jehan,” he said warmly, standing up and embracing him. “It’s good to see you! How are you enjoying California?”

Jehan sat lightly in the proffered chair and flushed slightly. “Ah…I haven’t seen too much of it yet,” he said delicately.

Enjolras frowned. “You’ve been here an entire day already and haven’t seen anything? What have you been—” He broke up, blushing scarlet, and cleared his throat. “Ah. Right. Um. I’m gonna go change.” He kissed Grantaire on the forehead before practically fleeing from the room.

“You’d think that after being married to me for this long, and after being friends with Courf for as long as he has, he’d be over his hang-ups about sex,” remarked Grantaire off-handedly.

Jehan smiled slightly, but it quickly faded. “Is there somewhere we can talk? Privately?”

Grantaire frowned, his brow wrinkled as he looked at Jehan, but something on Jehan’s face told him not to argue with this. “Um, sure, we can go to the guest bedroom.” He led the way, letting Jehan enter the room before him and following him in, looking concerned. “What’s going on, Jehan?”

“Are you off your meds?”

Grantaire stopped in his tracks and stared at him. “What?” he asked, laughing, though his chuckle sounded forced. “What are you talking about, Jehan?” Wordlessly, Jehan unfolded Courfeyrac’s sign from his pocket and held it out to Grantaire, who licked his lips nervously. “Yeah, I helped paint this. I didn’t realize that would mean I was off my meds.”

Jehan frowned. “R, I’ve known you for years, I’ve watched you paint for years. I’ve never once seen you paint flowers like that. It’s not your style of painting at all.”

“So?”

Leaning forward, Jehan tried to get Grantaire to meet his eyes. “So I’m worried, R. Have you been to see a doctor out here? Have your meds been adjusted? Or most importantly, have you stopped taking them like I suspect?”

Grantaire chuckled again, a definite strain in his voice as his Adam’s apple bobbed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I mean, you think I’m off my meds because I painted some fucking flowers? C’mon Jehan…”

“It’s not just the flowers,” Jehan snapped, tension and worry battling across his face. “Your attitude has been different when we’ve been talking on the phone lately, and you’ve completely changed your painting style. You realize the last time this happened was my junior year when you almost killed yourself, right? So answer the goddamn question, Grantaire. Are you off your meds?”

“For fuck’s sake, Jehan, yes, I’m off my goddamned meds because it occurred to me that it wouldn’t be a good idea to mix my meds with cocaine, alright? Is that what you want me to say?” Grantaire was practically shouting, his eyes flashing with anger that quickly faded into fear as soon as he realized what he had said. “Jehan, I—shit.”

Jehan sank on to the edge of the bed. “Cocaine, R? Really?”

For a moment, it looked as if Grantaire was going to deny, but instead he made a sound that may have been a weak laugh and shrugged half-heartedly. “Really.”

“But…why?” Jehan looked up at him through wide, concerned eyes. “You have everything going for you right now. So…why?”

Grantaire slumped on to the bed next to Jehan, his face a picture of misery. “I don’t know,” he whispered, lying back to stare at the ceiling.

Jehan let him sit in silence for a good five minutes. He knew better than to yell; yelling wouldn’t get through to Grantaire. Instead, he waited until he could no longer tolerate the silence before he asked, his voice firm, “You do know, Grantaire. Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Sitting up, Grantaire drew his knees up to his chest, his eyes haunted. “I don’t know. I mean, let’s start with the obvious – it feels really fucking good when I’m high. I’m not in a fog like I am when I’m on my meds. And it helps. It really does. I can get through all the stupid fucking Hollywood shit when I’m high without complaining and without needed to down half a bottle of vodka. And sometimes…” He hesitated for a moment before adding softly, “Sometimes it just feels really good to not be me for a bit.”

“What about your meds?” Jehan asked quietly. “You know you’re on them for a reason, and that’s not something that’s going to go away.”

Grantaire half shrugged. “For the moment it hasn’t really been an issue. And I’m starting to wonder if my meds were part of the problem. They sure as hell never fixed anything.”

Jehan snorted. “So you decided to do cocaine. Because that’s going to solve anything.”

Grantaire shook his head and laughed bitterly. “I didn’t say it was going to solve a damn thing, Jehan. But for right now it works. I know that’s fucked up. But when I’m on coke I can handle all the shit that comes with this. I can be there for Enjolras when he needs me.”

Sighing tiredly, Jehan asked quietly, “You do realize that Enjolras would undoubtedly rather stop doing the events and the press tours and everything else than having you do cocaine, right?”

Grantaire’s eyes flashed. “Of course I know that. But I want to be there for him. I don’t want to hold him back from anything.” His voice turned wheedling. “And we’re happy. We’re really happy, Jehan. Isn’t that what matters?”

Jehan raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t what matters that you’re honest with each other? I mean, if you need coke to feel happy with your husband, R, that’s a problem. And it’s a problem that needs to be solved between you two. Especially since I’m sure he doesn’t know…”

The trailed off statement almost sounded like a question, and Grantaire shook his head. “No, of course he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t understand.”

They fell into silence again as Jehan contemplated that. He still didn’t understand either. “You know that Enjolras is going to find out,” Jehan said eventually.

Grantaire leveled a glare at him. “Not if you don’t say anything.”

“I will tell Courf.” Jehan’s voice and gaze were flat as he looked evenly at Grantaire. “This is too big for me to keep from him. Even just on a personal level, Enjolras notwithstanding. If you dare ask me not to tell him I swear to God I will deck you in the face and walk out right now without a single regret.” He waited, but Grantaire wisely chose not to say anything. “And once Courf knows,” Jehan continued, “you know Enjolras and everyone else will. So I’m begging you, Taire – tell Enjolras before he finds out from someone else.”

* * *

Out in the hallway, Enjolras was frozen in place as he had been for the past five minutes, having come to ask if Jehan wanted anything to eat or drink and instead overhearing…this. He felt as if he had been punched in the gut. Repeatedly. His chest _hurt_ and he couldn’t seem to breathe properly, his hands shaking even as he clenched them at his sides.

Grantaire was doing drugs. Drugs. It was as if Enjolras’s worst nightmares were all coming true, and he felt…almost guilty, knowing that it was mostly his fault for dragging Grantaire out here in the first place. If they had just stayed in New York, if they had just kept things the way they were…

He was still standing there, full of crippling indecision over what to do, how to confront the problem, wanting nothing more than to run back to the kitchen and pretend that he hadn’t heard a word of this when Jehan opened the door all the way, still talking over his shoulder to Grantaire. Both men froze when they saw Enjolras standing there. “Enj—” Grantaire squeaked, looking terrified.

Enjolras just stared at him, his face blank. Then his eyes slid to Jehan for a brief moment before snapping back to Grantaire. “Jehan, I think you should leave now. I need to talk to my husband.”

Jehan took one look at him and shook his head, stepping between the two of them. “Uh-uh. I’m not going anywhere.”

Grantaire was still staring at Enjolras with a horrified look on his face, and Enjolras’s eyes didn’t leave his as he said firmly to Jehan, “I really don’t think you’re going to want to be here for this.”

Jehan didn’t move. “It doesn’t matter whether I want to be here or not. I’m not leaving you two alone. Not  right now, not like this.”

“This isn’t your business, Jehan,” hissed Enjolras between clenched teeth, trying his damndest to keep his temper.

Jehan still stood between him and Grantaire, fingertips just resting on Enjolras’s chest. Though he looked fragile, Enjolras knew better than to be deceived; Jehan was made of iron and steel and would no sooner crack than back down. “This is my business, Enjolras,” he said calmly, “if only because Grantaire is my best friend and I want him to not do this anymore as much as you do.”

Finally looking down at Jehan, Enjolras gave a jerky shrug, his expression unchanging. “Fine. Stay if you’re going to stay. But Grantaire and I need to talk. Now.” Grantaire looked like a cornered rabbit, and his eyes flickered past Enjolras as if wondering if he could bolt. “Don’t even think about it, Taire,” snapped Enjolras. He gestured toward the bed in the guest room. “Sit. Now.”

Grantaire’s expression had turned to pure panic, but still he sat, unable as ever to disobey a direct command to Enjolras, who paced in front of him, arms crossed in front of his chest. After a long silence, Enjolras asked, voice torn with disbelief, with hurt, and with something not as easily identifiable, “Drugs, Taire?”

“Yeah,” said Grantaire, his voice small. Under any other circumstances, he would have tried to lie or laugh it off, but the look on Enjolras’s face told him that doing so would only make things worse.

Enjolras took a deep breath and turned to face him. “When did this start?”

Grantaire picked at the bedspread, avoiding Enjolras’s gaze. “Um, a little over a month ago? After the premiere for that godawful film…can’t remember the name…”

Enjolras looked stunned. “A _month_ , Taire?” He mentally ran through a list of everything that had done in the past month, and Grantaire watched as he became more and more crestfallen, as shock was replaced by something much closer to despair. “You were high for all of that?”

“Not…not _all_ of it,” Grantaire hedged, but when he met Enjolras’s eyes, he added softly, “But for most of it, yes.”

Taking a deep breath, Enjolras started to speak, then broke off, biting his lip as he stared at Grantaire. Finally, he asked, voice impossibly soft, “Why?”

Grantaire looked at Jehan for support, but Jehan just raised an eyebrow. This was not his to tell. Looking down, Grantaire mumbled, “I…I don’t know. Things were…things were hard. And the coke made it easier.” He looked up at Enjolras, begging him to understand. “You don’t know what it’s like for me, Enj, to be at these parties and premieres and everything else, to feel so out of place and so much like I don’t belong.”

“I don’t know?” Enjolras repeated, his voice rising in volume as his expression became incredulous. “ _I_ don’t know? For fuck’s sake, Grantaire, I’ve spent almost the last decade of my life trying to fit in with these people, and I still don’t feel like I belong. But I’ve never felt the urge to—”

He broke off, but Grantaire’s face hardened. “Yeah, you’ve never felt the urge to use drugs. Of course you haven’t. You’re perfect. Thanks once again for reminding me. As if I didn’t already feel worthless.”

Jehan started to interject, but Enjolras spoke over him. “ _You_ feel worthless? I’m the one whose husband has been using drugs without me knowing about it for the past month, the one who’s been fucking you while you were high and who treasured every time you told me that you loved me, because damnit Taire, I thought you were _happy_. I didn’t realize you were fucking high.” He stopped and glared at Grantaire. “Are you high now?”

“Of course not,” Grantaire snapped, trying not to think of the small bump he had taken before Jehan arrived.

They glared at each other for a long moment before Enjolras let out a long sigh. “Fine. Whatever. All I want to know right now is what it will take to get you to quit.”

Grantaire let out a sharp huff of cruel laughter. “Who says I want to quit?”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed, and he opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, his face tightening. He pulled out his phone, frantically typing into it. “What are you doing?” Grantaire asked suspicioiusly.

Without looking up, Enjolras replied, “Looking up rehabs. Narcotics Anonymous meetings. Something, anything. You need help, Taire.”

Grantaire shot to his feet, eyes blazing. “I told you before, you can’t fix me, so don’t bother trying,” he snapped.

Enjolras looked up from his phone. “What the fuck do you want me to do, Taire? I can’t let you continue like this!” He took a step toward Grantaire, his face softening. “Please. You’re not broken, Taire, I know that. But you do need help.”

“All I need is you.” Grantaire’s eyes met his. “All I’ve ever needed is you.”

There was a long silence, then Enjolras said softly, “I think it’s time we both realize that I’m not enough. Not for this.”

Grantaire swallowed hard, eyes not leaving Enjolras’s. “Just…tell me that we’re going to be ok.” Though his words were spoken flatly, the pleading in his eyes was unmistakable.

Enjolras just looked at him, emotions playing out over his face. “I can’t,” he whispered. “Not if you’re going to keep doing this, Grantaire.”

Grantaire nodded, a short, jerky nod. Then he bolted, dodging past Enjolras and Jehan before either could stop him. A few seconds later, the front door slammed, and Enjolras closed his eyes. “God _damn_ it,” he swore, reaching out to steady himself against the wall.

“Nice going, asshole,” spat Jehan venomously.

Turning, Enjolras looked at him incredulously. “What the hell, Jehan?”

Jehan’s face was full of fury as he snapped, “You did hear the part about how he’s off his meds, right? Do you have any idea what he’s going to be going through in his head right now, Enjolras? Do you even give a damn?”

The look that Enjolras gave him stopped him in his tracks. “Don’t. You know I do.”

Slumping slightly, Jehan sat on the edge of the bed, feeling defeated. “Then why—”

“Because it’s all my fault, Jehan!” Enjolras shouted. “What the hell was I supposed to say to him? How could I tell him that it was all going to be ok when it’s my fault that he’s doing this, that he’s like this?”

Jehan stared up at him. “You really believe that, don’t you? That this is your fault?”

Blinking, Enjolras stared back at him. “Of course I believe it,” he said after a long moment. “How could I not believe it when it’s true? I did this to him. I brought him out here, I made him go to all those events, I made him feel like he needed to be or act a certain way—”

“Did you give him drugs?” Jehan asked, cutting him off. “Did you tell him to do drugs? Did you tell him that you love him more when he’s high?”

These questions made Enjolras glare at Jehan. “Of course not.”

Jehan leaned forward. “Then none of this is your fault, Enjolras. Yes, the circumstances that your marriage put him in are not ideal, but Grantaire…” He trailed off and let out a strained chuckle. “I was about to say Grantaire has a problem, but that hardly comes close to describing it, does it?” He paused again, trying to sort out his thoughts, before saying softly, “Grantaire has a lot of problems, Enjolras, some of which were exacerbated by moving out here and the situations that he has been in, but you had no way of knowing that. And above all, he made the choice to try and solve things by using drugs. He has always been incredibly self-destructive, since long before he knew you.”

“But I should have noticed,” Enjolras whispered. “I should have known. I should have done…something.”

This made Jehan shake his head firmly. “There was nothing you could have done. I promise you that. And you cannot blame yourself, because that will not help at all, ok?” Enjolras shrugged, though he looked unconvinced. “Do you know where Grantaire might have gone?” Jehan asked. When Enjolras just shook his head mutely, Jehan sighed. “Alright. Well, you should stay here. Do _not_ go searching for him. He has to come to you on his own terms. Trust me on that one.” Jehan stood. “Take him to the psychiatrist as soon as you can.”

Enjolras nodded again and forced a smile onto his face. “Thanks, Jehan. For everything.”

Jehan grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I can’t promise that everything will be ok, Enjolras, no more than you could promise Grantaire. But I truly believe that if anyone can make it through this, it will be you and him. You love each other.”

“I know,” Enjolras whispered, his eyes dark with misery. “I just wish that were enough.”

* * *

Enjolras sat at their kitchen table hours later, staring dazedly at nothing in particular. He felt as if his entire life had fallen apart, as if the anchor that held him in place had been suddenly cut loose and he was just floating. Grantaire was God only knew where, doing God only knew what, and Enjolras just felt _helpless_.

He was a man of action, a man meant to be _doing_ not just _sitting_ here, waiting for some kind of absolution, though from what he couldn’t even say. All he wanted at the moment was to know that Grantaire was ok, that Grantaire was going to come home to him.

But he knew that even with this knowledge, there was something that was…not broken, that wasn’t the right term…but _missing_ between them now. And it wouldn’t be solved with knowing Grantaire was ok, it wouldn’t be solved with taking Grantaire in his arms and holding him tight even as he told he was a stupid, stupid man that Enjolras loved more than anything. But that was a secondary problem because at the moment, Enjolras needed to know that Grantaire was alive and safe like he needed oxygen.

He had no idea how it had come to this, how he had come to feel that he needed Grantaire more than anything in his life. He loved Grantaire, and had for so long now that he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not love him. But this…this was more than love, or lust. He had always felt that work was his life, and when Grantaire came into the picture, he had made room for him as a part of that. But now it felt as though the ratios were slipping, that Grantaire was more and more his life, and everything else was a sidebar.

His cell phone rang and he picked up automatically without even looking at the screen to see who was calling. After all, there was only one voice he wanted to hear on the other end, and if this wasn’t it, he might just throw his phone against the wall. “Hello?”

“Enjolras?”

Enjolras almost sank to the ground in relief. Grantaire’s voice sounded rough and weak, and to Enjolras, it sounded as if the other man had been crying. Despite that, Enjolras had never been happier to hear Grantaire’s voice in his life. “Taire,” he whispered, clutching the phone in his hands so hard that his knuckles turned white. “Grantaire, are you alright?”

There was a long pause before Grantaire let out a low sob. “No. No, I’m not alright.”

“Where are you, Taire? I’ll come pick you up.” Enjolras did not hesitate before offering, all thoughts of their previous argument set aside as his voice tightened with worry.

Another quiet sob before Grantaire said roughly, “No. I can’t…you can’t see me like this. I’m just…I’m so, so sorry Enjolras. I’m sorry. I—I’m just not strong like you are. Please, please don’t hate me.”

Grantaire was openly sobbing by the end of it, and it took every ounce of Enjolras’s control not to lose it as well, taking several deep breaths before being able to respond. “I don’t hate you, baby, I swear. I love you so fucking much, Grantaire. I just don’t…don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore. Especially not because of something that I’ve done.” His voice cracked and it took a moment before he was able to add, so quietly that he didn’t even know if Grantaire could hear him, “I can’t live with myself knowing that I’ve done this to you, Taire.”

“You didn’t do anything,” Grantaire protested, his voice still weak but rising in intensity. “You’ve been nothing but amazing. I’m just too weak to handle things and I fuck everything up and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Enjolras cut him off as he started crying again, his own voice filled with anguish. “No, Grantaire, stop, baby, please.” He paused, his tongue tripping over all the words he wanted to say, some only half-true and some flat-out lies, but when he spoke again, his words were entirely sincere. “I love you. There is nothing that you could ever do to change that. Nothing. I will love you until the day that I die and, if there is any justice in this universe, far beyond that.” Pausing again, calmer this time, less frantically trying to sort his own thoughts out, he said slowly, “We do still need to talk, though. About this, about everything. But when you’re sober. Not right now.”

After a long moment, Grantaire sighed deeply. “I know.” Then he added, in a voice that sounded more like breathing than speaking, “I love you.”

Closing his eyes and swallowing hard, still gripping his phone so hard that he thought he might break it, Enjolras whispered, “And I still love you, Grantaire. Now and always.” There was a long silence before Enjolras asked quietly, “Do you want me to come pick you up?”

Grantaire hesitated for a moment before saying softly, “I already asked Jehan to. I think…I think I need to spend some time away. To…to clear my head a bit, you know?”

“I understand.” Enjolras bit his lip, not wanting to push too far, but he still said, almost worriedly, “There’s an NA meeting tonight. I…I was hoping you would go. I can go with you; it’s an open meeting, I checked. If…you know, if you wanted me there.”

The silence this time stretched on for minutes before Grantaire finally said, his voice rough again, “If you want to be there, be there. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure I don’t lose you.”

Enjolras swallowed, hard. “You could never lose me, Taire, I promise you that.” Silence stretched between them, but it was more comfortable than before. Finally, Enjolras whispered, “So I will see you tonight at 8? The community center on Washington?”

“Mmm,” Grantaire murmured, and Enjolras could still hear the worry and concern and guilt that gnawed at the other man.

Leaning forward, even though Grantaire could not see him, Enjolras said softly, “I still love you, Grantaire. Take as much time as you need between now and then, ok?”

Grantaire whispered, “Ok. I love you too.” Then he hung up, and Enjolras set his phone down on the table before running a shaking hand through his hair. It was then and only then that Enjolras allowed himself to cry.

* * *

Enjolras sat in his car in the parking lot of the dingy community center where the NA meeting was set to start in twenty minutes. His fingers tapped a nervous beat on to the steering wheel, keeping his hands occupied so that he wouldn’t pick up his phone to call or text Grantaire. He had to let him come here on his own; if he were to pressure him, who knew what Grantaire would end up doing?

So even as the seconds stretched into minutes, Enjolras did not move, ignored his phone in his pocket. The time on clock in his car slipped from 7:40 to 7:45 to 7:50. There was still no sign of Grantaire.

At 8:05, Enjolras closed his eyes and slumped in his seat. The sudden buzz of his phone jerked him from his reverie, and he scrambled to pull it out of his pocket and scan the message.

His phone dropped from his hand, clattering on floor of his car. Grantaire’s words still burned in his mind, even as he closed his eyes, tears welling in their corners as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel.

“ _I’m sorry. I couldn’t. I love you_ … _but I just couldn’t._ ”


	13. Act II, Scene 4 - "It's Only Love"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've kind of giving up keeping the timeline straight in this. Hopefully the passages of time make sense. If not, pester me and I'll work on fixing it.
> 
> Usual disclaimers apply. I own nothing but the assuredly numerous typos herein contained.

Act II, Scene 4 – “It’s Only Love” – _The Scarlet Pimpernel_

“ _Come meet my eyes one moment more_  
 _Our eyes are different than before_  
 _This night, so beautiful and strange_  
 _This night begins to change who we are_  
 _Don't turn away, it's only love_  
 _Quietly coming to you, whispering through you_  
 _Take my hand, it's only love_  
 _Let it come through you slowly_  
 _Don't be afraid, it's only love_  
 _We touch, the dark begins to stir_  
 _We can't go back to where we were_ ”

 

When Enjolras left for work the next morning, Grantaire had still not returned. When he returned from his day of shooting – where he knew that he had been off-focus all day, giving some of the worst takes of his career – he found the house still empty.

So he did the only thing that he could so, grabbing his cell phone and calling Jehan. “Where is he?” he asked, in lieu of greeting.

Luckily, Jehan did not seem to take offense at this. “He’s out somewhere, Enj. Before you ask, no, I don’t know where exactly. He didn’t tell me. I do know that when he left this morning, he was sober. He needs time.”

“At the moment, I don’t particularly give a flying fuck what he needs,” Enjolras said shortly, running a hand through his hair. “I need to find my husband.”

There was a pause before Jehan said gently, “Enjolras, I don’t think he wants to be found at the moment. He had a really hard night. That’s why he didn’t come to the meeting last night, you know. Not because he doesn’t want to stop, or doesn’t think he needs help, but because he couldn’t face you. He’s terrified of what you must think of him.”

Sighing, Enjolras closed his eyes, trying hard not to cry or scream in frustration. After a long moment he said, with a voice gruff from the lump in his throat, “The only thing I think of him right now is how much I wish he were here. With me.”

“I know.” Jehan’s voice was soft and sad, which only made Enjolras’s chest contract more. “But in order to make that happen, you have to give him time.”

Enjolras asked slowly, “And what if he decides to do something stupid in the meantime?”

The silence this time was sharp, tense, Enjolras waiting for Jehan’s answer and Jehan’s reluctance to give it palpable in the dead air between them. Finally, Jehan chose the simple answer, and the one answer that Enjolras did not want to hear. “Then he does something stupid.”

“Damnit, Jehan, that’s not fucking good enough,” Enjolras snapped, the tension of the last day breaking into his voice like an electric current. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I _won’t_ sit here and do nothing, not when he’s out there doing God knows what, hurting himself more, maybe. How could I live with myself if something were to happen to him, knowing that I sat here and _gave him time_ instead of looking for him and getting him help or something?”

Jehan’s answering tone was sharp, perhaps sharper than he intended when he replied brusquely, “Because if you search for him before he’s ready and drag him to get help instead of letting him seek it on his own, you run the risk of losing him forever. And I don’t want that, Enj, not for you and certainly not for him.” He fell silent for a moment, then added, “It’s what almost happened to him and me.”

Enjolras asked quietly, “You mean back when he…”

“Back when he tried to kill himself?” There was still a sharpness to Jehan’s words, but less aimed at Enjolras, more of a bitter introspection. “Yeah. I pushed him to get help, to talk to someone, and instead he took off. Didn’t take his meds with him, and then…you know.”

Enjolras didn’t know, not really; Jehan had never gone too far into specifics, leaving it at Grantaire going off his meds and trying to kill himself. He supposed that Jehan didn’t want to talk about it, or remember it, and to be fair, at the moment, Enjolras didn’t even want to think about it. “But that’s my point – what if he tries again?”

Now Jehan was gentle, almost reassuring, as he answered, “He’s not going to. He’s not at the point, Enjolras, I promise. And I truly don’t think he would ever try and take himself away from you. He loves you far too much for that.”

“If he doesn’t want to take himself away from me, why the drugs? Why, when he knows that I’m just going to be upset with him?”

Patiently, Jehan explained, “Because there’s a very big difference between Grantaire ending things with you – through suicide or whatever – and you ending things with him. He expects the latter; it’s part of why he does the things he does. In his head it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy exacerbated by his self-loathing.”

Sighing, Enjolras asked, trying not let a petulant whine creep into his voice, “But then why shouldn’t I go to him, tell him that I love him and that I still want to be with him and that I would never in a million years end things with him? Wouldn’t that make more sense?

“To you, yes, maybe, but to him, no. He’ll take it as a further sign that you’re only staying with him out of obligation or something similar and it will continue his spiral.” Jehan paused, then added softly, “He will come around, Enjolras. He’s different now than how he was before. He loves you.”

Silence stretched between them again until Enjolras asked in a low voice, “What would you do if it was Courfeyrac?”

After a short pause, Jehan replied, sounding almost hurt by the words, “That’s not a fair question. Courfeyrac and Grantaire are entirely different.”

“And I’m not you,” Enjolras countered. “And my relationship with my husband isn’t the same as your relationship with Grantaire.”

Now Jehan’s voice was frustrated. “I never said that it was. I’m just trying to help you, Enjolras, and the only way that I can do that is by telling you my experience in dealing with Grantaire when he’s like this.”

“Well excuse me for being skeptical, but the last time you dealt with this, he almost killed himself, so.” Enjolras practically snarled the words, almost blind with anger and frustration at the whole mess.

Jehan let out a small gasp and then there was silence until the dial tone sounded in Enjolras’s ear. He looked down at his phone and blinked slightly. Then his phone buzzed with a text from Courfeyrac. “ _Fuck you, you fucking asshole_ ,” was all it read, and Enjolras closed his eyes. He hadn’t _meant_ it, not like that.

Quickly he tapped out a response. “ _Tell Jehan I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it._ ”

Courfeyrac did not respond to that, but then Enjolras hadn’t really expected him to. In desperation, he called Grantaire one more time. The call went straight to voicemail, Grantaire’s voice cheerfully stating, “Hey this is R—”

“Goddamnit,” Enjolras swore, chucking his phone in full force at the wall, sinking down to the floor where he drew his legs up to his chest, resting his forehead against his knees. Why did it feel like everything was falling apart? Abruptly, he stood, heading into the kitchen and rummaging in a cabinet until he found what he looking for – one of Grantaire’s liquor bottles, mostly full.

If it worked to help Grantaire forget the problems in his life, why wouldn’t it work for Enjolras?

He unscrewed the cap and took a swig directly from the bottle, trying valiantly not to choke at the burn as it went down. Taking another gulp, he went back into their bedroom, sitting on the side of the bed, looking forlornly at the empty half of the bed where Grantaire should be. In that moment, he had never felt so alone.

So he did the only thing he could do: just kept drinking more.

* * *

 

Enjolras woke the next morning with a stabbing headache, his mouth tasting like stale whiskey and, rather unfortunately, what he suspected was vomit. He blinked weakly and squinted against the light, because who the fuck had decided that the sun was allowed to be so bright?

He started to try to sit up, but felt a gently hand on his shoulder pushing him gently back down. “Don’t try to move yet,” a familiar voice told him softly, sadly. “You’ll just make yourself feel worse.”

Enjolras blinked again and Grantaire’s face swam into view – pale and slightly worried, but Grantaire’s face nonetheless. “Taire,” breathed Enjolras, reaching out for him, but he had to stop halfway through. “Oh, God, I think I’m gonna—”

“Trash can, next to bed,” said Grantaire hastily, and Enjolras rolled over, just making it in time to throw up noisily into the conveniently placed trashcan. He felt Grantaire’s fingers gently comb his hair back from his face and heard him murmuring soothing words that he couldn’t quite make out.

Once the dry heaving had subsided, Enjolras rolled over onto his back, arm across his eyes. “How the fuck do you live like this?”

Grantaire let out a snort that may have been mild amusement, though his tone was tender as he replied, “Well, for starters, I worked my way up to drinking an entire bottle of Jack in one sitting. I’m surprised you didn’t give yourself alcohol poisoning with as much as you drank.”

Enjolras squinted over at him, taking in his clean appearance. “You showered,” he muttered, hoping the words make sense.

“Yeah, well, you kind of puked on me as I was carrying you to bed,” said Grantaire awkwardly, looking determinedly not at Enjolras. “Which is no less than I deserved, I know, but I didn’t really want to spend the morning in clothes soaked in that.”

Now Enjolras’s eyes widened. “Spend the morning?” he echoed. “What time did you get in? What time is it now?”

Grantaire’s eyes flickered over to the clock. “Um, one in the afternoon. Give or take a few minutes.”

“Shit,” said Enjolras, sitting up, wincing as the throbbing in his head intensified. “I am so fucking late for work. They’re gonna kill me.”

Grantaire started to reach out to touch him, then seemed to think better of it, his hand falling to his side. “Don’t worry. I took care of it. I got in at 3 this morning, and saw that you clearly weren’t going to be anywhere ready to go to work by 7. So I texted Ferre and he called into work for you.”

Enjolras slumped back against his pillows, relieved. “Thanks,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “God, I feel like shit.”

Nodding sympathetically, Grantaire traced random patterns in the bedspread. “You know, between missing work two days ago and missing work today, they’re going to start to think something’s the matter.”

“They wouldn’t be wrong, would they?” Enjolras asked quietly, meeting his eyes. Grantaire flushed slightly and looked away. After a long moment, Enjolras asked, trying to inject come levity into the conversation, “So how incoherent was I last night when you found me? Did I do anything stupid besides puking on you?”

“No, more than anything I was surprised you were still able to stand. When I came in you were just standing in the living room, empty bottle in hand, staring at the wall. And then when you saw me…well, you mostly just clung to me like a koala and kept muttering into my neck how you weren’t going to leave me, you were never going to leave me,” Grantaire informed him dryly.

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s jaw. “Well, you know what they say,” he said, watching Grantaire’s face carefully, “alcohol goes in, truth comes out.” Grantaire snorted, but didn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes. “I mean it, Taire. I meant it last night when I said, and I mean it now. I will never leave you. I’m just so, so afraid that you’re going to end up leaving me.”

Now Grantaire’s eyes snapped up to meet Enjolras’s. “Never,” he breathed, reaching out to grab Enjolras’s hands. “I could never leave you, don’t you see?”

“Maybe not because you mean to,” Enjolras said softly, pulling his hands away from Grantaire, “but there’s more than one way to leave me. Some more permanent than others.”

Comprehension dawned in Grantaire’s eyes and he bit his lip, looking down. “I wouldn't do that, Enjolras. Not purposefully."

Enjolras sat up straighter. “That’s just it, Taire,” he said seriously. “I’m worried that you’re going to go too far one day or do something stupid and that I’ll lose you. Whether to the alcohol or the cocaine or even your depression – I’m so terrified that you’re going to end up somewhere out of my reach.” He paused for a moment and looked so broken that Grantaire wanted nothing more than to gather him in his arms and hold him close. “You need to get help. If you’re serious about not wanting to leave me, you need to get help before it’s too late.”

Grantaire’s eyes met Enjolras’s and there, behind the fear and the residual anger, there in Enjolras’s eyes shone the same fierce love that Grantaire had so missed, that Grantaire knew he could never live up to or deserve. And in that moment Grantaire scrambled across the bed to draw Enjolras close to him, pulling the blond man back down against the bed as he snuggled against him. “I will get help, I promise. I’ll do anything. Everything.”

They lay curled around each other in silence for a few moments, Grantaire's head resting on Enjolras's chest, feeling his heart beat steadily beneath him. After a while, Grantaire sat up so that he could look more closely at Enjolras. "I truly am sorry," he stated quietly. And he was, more sorry than Enjolras would ever understand. He was sorry for all of it, sorry for the drugs, sorry for his weakness, sorry for his inability to not fuck everything in his life up, sorry that he had let this beautiful man marry him know that he would only destroy him.

“Just promise me you’re done with this, Taire.” Enjolras said softly, begged really, his breath catching ever so slightly. “I don’t care what we have to do, how much it takes. Promise me you won’t go looking for this anymore.”

Grantaire looked directly into eyes. “I promise.”

And Enjolras, eyes matching Grantaire’s, nodded and, for the first time during the entirety of his marriage, flat-out lied to Grantaire. “I believe you.”

* * *

Grantaire kept his word, to the letter, for longer than he thought he would. He went to see the psychiatrist the very next day and got set up on a new course of antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds, different ones than before to try and balance the effects of his latest cycle.

He also started going to NA meetings. He didn’t get a whole lot out of them, to be honest – he didn't think he had ever really been addicted to cocaine, and he really couldn’t get behind the whole ‘higher power’ thing, since the only higher power in his life was Enjolras – but still he went, to satisfy the man he loved. In truth, he probably would have been better off going to AA meetings, but that would require giving up alcohol, and while at Enjolras’s insistence he cut back, he didn’t stop drinking entirely.

After their fight, they had both been so tentative, tip-toeing around each other as if afraid of rekindling the issues that still simmered between them. Then one day, when Enjolras was having an informal meeting with Courfeyrac and Combeferre at the kitchen table, Grantaire had come up behind him, slipped his arms around Enjolras’s shoulders and whispered in his ear, “If you don’t fuck me right now...”

He didn’t even complete the sentence before Enjolras stood abruptly. “Courf, Ferre, out. We’ll continue this some other time.” Luckily neither man had argued, though Courfeyrac had given Grantaire a knowing wink.

The news that Enjolras’s series had been picked up for another season was celebrated with a quiet evening in, just Enjolras and Grantaire together. They discussed many things that night, including the fact that it no longer made sense to move back to New York during the hiatus. Grantaire swore up and down that he was fine with it, and he really wasn’t lying, not purposefully, he was just busy trying not think about how desperately he wanted a bump of coke in that moment.

Happiness came back gradually, in small moments shared between the two men. When Enjolras had a late call time so they snuggled in bed, Enjolras playing with Grantaire’s hair and teasing him that he needed a haircut. Or Grantaire waking up extra early to make coffee for Enjolras before he had to leave. Or when Enjolras came back from work to find a note from Grantaire that he had gone to the beach to paint, and then upon finding him there, tackling him from behind to the sand where they rolled around and made out like teenagers.

Though Enjolras’s show was ineligible to be nominated, he was asked to present at the SAG awards. It was the first event that he and Grantaire had attended together since their fight, and Enjolras told Grantaire quietly one evening shortly before the show, “I want you to walk the red carpet with me.”

The answering grin he received was all he needed.

So hand-in-hand they stood, posing for photographs, the smile on Grantaire’s face so wide it almost hurt, but so real that Enjolras couldn’t help but bend over and press a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. When the photographers called out asking for solo shots, Grantaire reluctantly dropped Enjolras’s hand and shuffled aside, but Enjolras’s eyes met his. “Don’t go far,” he said, his voice soft but commanding. “I need you here.”

Grantaire smiled weakly, but he could already see the photographers clamoring for pictures now that Grantaire was out of the shot. He adjusted his tie and his cufflinks and fiddled with the buttons of his tux, waiting for Enjolras to be done.

But of course, in addition to the pictures, there were people who wanted interviews, and it took all of Grantaire’s self-control to not roll his eyes and tap his foot impatiently.

Finally, finally, it was over with, and Enjolras joined him with an apologetic smile, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. “You ok?” Enjolras asked under his breath, and Grantaire just nodded.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just gotta run to the bathroom. I’ll see you inside, alright?”

Enjolras frowned but let him go. Grantaire headed to the bathroom and splashed some water on his face, trying not to think how much easier it was to face these things when he was high. Suddenly, he froze, hearing the tell-tale sounds of someone snorting something from the stall. Grantaire looked over his shoulder to see the star du jour from the latest adaptation of _Aquaman_ bent over the toilet, snorting lines of coke. The guy looked up and grinned at Grantaire. “You want some?”

Grantaire hesitated. He wanted, more than anything in the world, to say no. But it felt as if his skin was _itching_ for a hit, and it would put him in a better mood until the show began. Shrugging in acquiescence, he said with a wry twitch to his lips, “Why not?”

* * *

 

Enjolras knew the moment Grantaire sat down that something was wrong. He wouldn’t look Enjolras in the eyes, for starters, and his movements seemed jerky, uncoordinated. Enjolras frowned. “Taire, look at me,” he commanded. When Grantaire pointedly looked away, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s chin and jerked his head around so that their eyes met.

Grantaire’s pupils were like saucers.

Enjolras’s hand fell from Grantaire’s face just as it as if his heart fell within his chest. “For fuck’s sake. Are you high?”

There was a brief moment where Grantaire considering lying, but given the storm of emotions already raging over Enjolras’s face, it didn’t seem like a good idea. He settled for whispering, “Yes.”

Standing abruptly, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s should and _yanked_ him to his feet, hauling him outside into the lobby. “We are not doing this again, Grantaire. We are not going through this again. You said you were fine. You’ve been getting help. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Because Grantaire was Grantaire, and because he had a particular lack of self-regard that was exacerbated by cocaine, he smirked slightly and answered, “I was thinking that dealing with you while you’re like this is ten times easier when I’m high.”

Enjolras whirled on him, trying to keep his voice down if only for the sake of the audience members still filtering through the lobby around them. “I’m only like this because you’re high, asshole, so don’t give me that bullshit.”

The smirk slid off Grantaire’s face, replaced by a sneer. “What do you want me to say, Enjolras? Forgive me for the fact that these events are shitty and you act shitty when you’re at them, and sometimes a guy just needs a little fucking help.”

His volume had risen exponentially during this, and Enjolras hissed, “Keep your voice down.”

“Why?” snapped Grantaire. “Are you ashamed of me? Am I that big of a fuck up to you? Why not let the world know that your husband is drug addict and general waste of fucking space?”

People had stopped to stare, murmuring to each other. A few had cameras and phones out. Enjolras just looked at Grantaire sadly. “You’re going home, Grantaire. You can’t be here like this.”

A shift in Grantaire’s mood was perceptible, and he asked hopefully, “Are you going to come home with me?”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed as he tried to keep his temper in check. “I can’t exactly just take off, Grantaire. I’m presenting an award. I’m sort of required to be here.”

Grantaire’s face fell even faster than in had lit up. “Of course,” he snorted. “Heaven forbid that I come first for once, that you care about me more than your precious work for once in your goddamned life.”

Jaw clenched, Enjolras looked at him stonily. “We’re not doing this here. We’re not having this conversation here, not with you like this.”

Again, Grantaire lit up, but this time with a slyness that seemed out of place. “Then come home with me and we can talk there. Please, Enjy.”

Rather than placate him, the use of the nickname only served to make Enjolras angrier. “I can’t just leave, Grantaire,” he spat. “I have an obligation. I made a promise. Something you clearly don’t understand.”

Grantaire’s face whitened and a few seconds later his fist connected with the side of Enjolras’s face. Enjolras stumbled backwards, eyes wide in shock, as Grantaire shouted, “You want to talk about keeping promises to me? Really? What about in sickness and in health, for better or for worse, huh?”

Enjolras’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Don’t you dare throw those words in my face, Grantaire. Don’t you dare. I have supported you every step of the way—”

“You don’t even know what it means to support another person,” Grantaire screamed, not even caring that he was no longer really making sense, just trying to throw out the words he knew would hurt Enjolras worst. “You didn’t even know there was something wrong with me for a fucking month.”

By this time security had made their way over, and two men had grabbed Grantaire’s arms, trying to pull him toward the exit. Grantaire struggled against them, still shouting at Enjolras. “I wish that I had never met you! None of this would have fucking happened if it weren’t for you!”

Enjolras’s eyes met his for a brief moment before Grantaire suddenly pitched forward, collapsing on the carpet.


	14. Act II, Scene 5 - "Who's Crazy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had wanted to get this up on Thursday. Failboat.
> 
> This chapter kind of goes in a different direction. Things continue falling apart.
> 
> Usual disclaimers: I own nothing, my experiences used as a basis are not meant to be representative, if you have any issues, feel free to hit me up in the comments or [on Tumblr](kjack89.tumblr.com). All typos are my own and probably worse than normal for this chapter (sorry - I'll go through and clean it up when I get a chance).

Act II, Scene 5 – “Who’s Crazy?” – _Next to Normal_

“ _Who's crazy, the one who can't cope?  
Or maybe, the one who'll still hope?_

_Who's crazy, the one who's half gone?  
Or maybe, the one who holds on?_

_Who’s crazy  
The one who’s uncured  
Or maybe the one who’s implored  
The one who has treatment,  
Or the one who just deals with the pain  
_ _They say love is blind  
_ _But believe me  
_ _Love is insane_ ”

Courfeyrac pushed through the emergency room doors, walking so briskly that Joly practically had to jog to keep up with him. Though his phone was clenched in his hand, he was pointedly ignoring every time it buzzed. He was also ignoring the worried glances that Joly kept throwing him, knowing fully well that his face was stormy with rage.

The only thing Courfeyrac wasn’t sure of was at whom exactly that rage was aimed.

When first he had heard, the initial, instinctive whirl of fury that rose in his chest was aimed at Grantaire for being so fucking stupid. That whirl had settled into more of a simmering but no less heated wrath at Enjolras, for letting Grantaire get him into the situation, and, more importantly, for fighting in public, in front of cameras, for fuck’s sake! Enjolras should have known better.

Of course, Courfeyrac knew that when it came to Grantaire, Enjolras never seemed to know any better.

In the half-hour since Combeferre called Courfeyrac to tell him to bring Joly and come to the hospital, Courfeyrac had been monitoring the media situation with growing despair. Footage of Enjolras and Grantaire’s argument and Grantaire’s collapse had flooded the internet within minutes, and the major networks had already picked up on it. It was going to be the headline for every news article and blog post about the SAGs, and #Enjolras and #Grantaire were trending worldwide on Twitter (never mind the fact that #RIPGrantaireMoreau had trended for a good twenty minutes until reputable news sites had managed to get it out there that Grantaire wasn’t actually dead).

HBO had already called to say that shooting was postponed for at least a week – they had used the fact that Enjolras was going to be emotionally wrecked as a reason, but Courfeyrac knew they were delaying to see if Enjolras would even be able to return to the show at all.

When Courfeyrac and Joly finally reached the waiting room, they found Combeferre pacing, arms crossed in front of his chest, while Enjolras sat in a chair, hunched over and staring blankly at the floor. Joly instantly went to ask Combeferre quietly if they had any news from the doctors yet, but Courfeyrac, seeing how defeated Enjolras looked, felt his anger begin to redirect at Grantaire again.

Suddenly a doctor poked her head into the room. “Enjolras Moreau?”

Enjolras stood, shaky, all of the color drained from his face. He conferred with her briefly as Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly all watched, concern and worry etched in their faces. Enjolras listened to the doctor stone-faced, and once she had left, went and sat down as if nothing had changed. Joly sat tentatively next to him, Courfeyrac on his other side. “Is there any news?”

“He’s stable,” said Enjolras shortly, staring at the wall. “It doesn’t look like there’s any lasting damage. They’re going to keep him under observation for at least a night, and then he’s going to be entered into a 5150 hold for 72 hours once he’s released from the medical side.”

Joly winced but didn’t look surprised. “That’s normal procedure, Enjolras. With everything going on with him, it's to be expected.”

Though Enjolras nodded, his facial expression didn’t change. “They aren’t going to let me see him. They said that it would be best for his recovery if I didn’t see him right now.”

None of them knew what to say to that. “What did the doctor say caused his collapse?” Combeferre asked softly after a long moment.

Enjolras shrugged, eyes vacant. “Said that it was something to do with a bad reaction to the mix of his meds and the coke.”

Combeferre looked over at Joly, who nodded in understanding. In undertones, Joly told Combeferre, “Depending on the type of meds that Grantaire was on, there can be an increased risk of seizure and even death when using cocaine, especially if Grantaire’s on any kind of dopaminergic antidepressants.”

Though Combeferre didn’t know entirely what that meant, he nodded shortly. “So it was just a drug interaction, then? He didn’t OD or anything?”

“None of that really matters,” said Courfeyrac shortly. “It’s already all over the news that Grantaire OD’d. Whether or not he did isn’t going to matter one bit to these people, not now that this is already out there. Any attempts to correct the story is just going to make it seem like we’re covering it up.”  

Enjolras did not react to any of what was happening, and Courfeyrac touched his shoulder gently. “Enj, if you’re not going to be able to see him, we need to start thinking about damage control.”

“Damage control?” Enjolras echoed.

“Yes. We already heard from the network. They’ve suspended shooting for a week, meaning we have a little bit of time to show them that you’re still ready and able to work. That this hasn’t changed anything about you professionally.”

Enjolras shrugged non-committally. “What’s the point, Courf? The media is just going to say what they want.”   

Courfeyrac tried to keep his mouth from falling open. “What’s the _point_?” he spluttered. “The point, Enjolras, is that you have a job and part of that job is presenting yourself in the best way possible so as to continue being employed. The shitstorm that going to come from this, that’s _already_ come from this…if you don’t do something about it, the network will replace you without any hesitation.”

“They can’t just replace me,” murmured Enjolras absently. “I’m the titular character.”

“Please tell me you’re not that stupid.” Courfeyrac’s voice was quiet, almost defeated. “Please tell me that you realize that they’ve had a list of potential replacements prepared since the day you were cast, just in case this all went to hell. Please tell me that you realize as soon as the first day you had to call in because of something Grantaire-related, they’ve been informally reaching out to the agents of people on that list. If you think you’re irreplaceable, Enj, you’re dead fucking wrong.”

It was as if Enjolras had not heard a single word Courfeyrac had said, just looking at him blankly, and Courf ground his teeth in frustration. “Come on, Enjolras, work with me here. I know that you love your job. I know you don’t want to lose it.”

“I don’t want to lose my job, but my husband is more important right now.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “And tell me, how are you going to be able to support your husband without a job?”

Enjolras eyes flickered up to meet his, and for the first time there was some emotion – however unidentifiable – in them. “What exactly do you want me to do, Courfeyrac? Since it appears that my relationship with Grantaire is the cause of all this trouble? Do you want me to divorce him?” Courfeyrac was silent, and Enjolras let out an incredulous laugh. “Are you fucking kidding me, Courf?”

“Maybe not divorce,” Courfeyrac said quickly, blushing slightly. “But maybe a trial separation? Enjolras, you’ve got to put forward the image that you’re not going to let Grantaire’s toxicity destroy your career. It’s what the networks and studios are waiting to see.”

The carefully projected calm on Enjolras’s face slipped for a moment and he stood, hands balled into fists at his side. “Please tell me this is some kind of elaborate joke, Courfeyrac. Please tell me that you are not sitting here as my friend telling me to separate from my husband.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and stood as well, holding up his hands placatingly. “C’mon, Enjolras, you know this isn’t personal—”

Out of nowhere, Enjolras’s fist smashed into Courfeyrac’s face with enough force to make the dark-haired man spin into the wall and crumble to the ground. Joly made a squeaking noise and Combeferre grabbed Enjolras’s arm before he could go after Courf again. “Don’t tell me that isn’t personal, Courfeyrac. This is my life, this is my husband that you’re talking about! Everything about this is personal!”

Wiping a trickle of blood from his nose, Courfeyrac probed his teeth cautiously with his tongue before staggering to his feet. “I’m only telling you what any agent would tell you, Enjolras. It’s my job. And I would really fucking appreciate it if you didn’t punch me for doing my job."

"Your job?" Hysterical laughter forced its way out of Enjolras's mouth. "Tell me where in your fucking job description it says for you to advise me to separate from the man I love."

"It says in my job description that I'm supposed to do everything in my power to keep you employed. And from where I'm standing, Grantaire is a real liability to that."

“Fine.” Enjolras’s voice was sharp, almost cruel, and Courfeyrac flinched visibly. “Then you’re fired. I’ll find a new agent.”

Courfeyrac stared at him blankly. "You...you can't mean that."

Enjolras met his gaze, eyes hard. "I promise you, I do."

Swallowing hard, Courfeyrac nodded slowly. "Fine. Keep going the way you're going, Enj. Good luck with that. I just can't believe you're willing to throw away everything for someone who may never get better."

"That's what you don't understand, Courf," whispered Enjolras. "He _is_ everything."

They stared at each other for a moment longer, then Courfeyrac nodded once, jerkily, before turning on his heel and leaving.

* * *

Courfeyrac walked out of the hospital and flagged down the first cab he saw. "LAX," he told the cab driver shortly before texting Jehan. " _I'm on my way to NYC. I need to see you. I love you._ "

He received a text back almost instantly. " _Is it about Grantaire? Is he alright?_ "

Clutching his phone so tightly he thought he might break it, Courfeyrac squeezed his eyes shut, resting his head in his hands. Of course Jehan would ask about Grantaire. Of course. Because Grantaire had somehow become the uncomfortable thing between them all, but especially the unspoken weight between Courfeyrac and Jehan.

Ever since Jehan had first told Courfeyrac about Grantaire's drug use, they had avoided talking about him. Jehan knew that Courfeyrac had and always would have differing priorities when it came to Grantaire, and so it had gone as a taboo subject for the past while (even if both men knew how much tension radiated between them because of it).

The past few months had been strained then, Courfeyrac unable to vent his frustrations while Jehan was unable to properly voice his worries and fears. And with Jehan in New York still, Courfeyrac couldn't help but feel like a gulf had opened between them.

Because Courfeyrac needed the pretty poet. He needed Jehan to vent to, to talk to, to share every aspect of his life with. That's what it boiled down to - wanting to share his life, his whole life, with the man he loved.

But as with everything, Grantaire had gotten in the way of that.

So instead of saying any of that, Courfeyrac simply texted back, " _Grantaire's fine. Going to be in the hospital for a bit. I just really need you right now._ "

Within instants, Jehan replied, " _I'll be here waiting. I love you._ "

* * *

It was in the early hours of the morning that Courfeyrac stumbled off of the red-eye, face drawn and ashen from lack of sleep. The bruise from Enjolras’s fist had blossomed into a rather magnificent black eye that spread all the way across his cheekbone. He had received quite the looks, but flying first class had its perks, and one of them was that no one asked any questions.

He had spent most of the flight trying to figure out what to say to Jehan, and he thought he knew. It might not solve everything, but the gesture would hopefully be enough that they could make it through this relatively unscathed.

His eyes lit up when he saw Jehan waiting for him, looking tired but eager. The eagerness in Jehan’s face quickly turned to concern, and the first words out of his mouth were, “What the hell happened to you?”

Courfeyrac grinned. He was with Jehan; all was right in the world. “Well, good morning to you, too, my love. Nice to see you as well. My flight was fine, thanks for asking.”

Jehan reached up to touch the bruise. “Be serious,” he practically growled. “Whose ass do I have to kick?”

Grabbing Jehan’s wrist, Courfeyrac turned his head to press a kiss to Jehan’s palm. “You don’t have to kick anyone’s ass, baby. The fault is mostly mine. I was a little insensitive.”

Though Jehan nodded, he didn’t look convinced. “Are you ok, though?”

“My love, I am with you, and thus I am more than ok.” Courfeyrac bent down to kiss Jehan gently, smiling against his lips. Then he took a deep breath and knelt fluidly onto one knee. “Jean Prouvaire, love of my life, will you marry me?"

Jehan looked at him, a mix of emotions flashing across his face too quickly for Courfeyrac to follow before settling on confusion. "Courf, what is this about?"

Frowning, Courfeyrac asked, “I’m asking you to marry me and you want to know _why_?”

Still looking confused, Jehan nodded. “Yes. I think I deserve that much, after the text from you saying you needed to see me and then you flying out here out of the blue after everything that happened with Grantaire. You should be in LA right now trying to do what you do to spin the media, and instead you’re here, proposing to me. So I want to know why.”

Courfeyrac swallowed. "I need to know that you'll love and support me no matter how much I screw things up."

"What are you talking about? You're scaring me. Tell me what's going on!"

People had begun to stop and stare at them, so Courfeyrac quickly stood up. “Nothing’s going on, Jehan, just…here.” He pulled him away from the crowd into a more secluded corner. “I’ve fucked things up. Pretty royally. And I don’t want anything to change between us because of that. Because what I did had nothing to do with you or with how I feel about you, I promise.”

Jehan reached up to cup his cheek, to brush his thumb gently across the bruise that marred Courfeyrac’s cheekbone. “I believe you. But Courfeyrac, what did you do?”

Courfeyrac took a deep breath and looked down, avoiding Jehan’s probing gaze. “I told Enjolras he should consider separating from Grantaire.” A sharp inhale of breath from Jehan prompted Courfeyrac to barrel onward. “It’s nothing personal, and I told Enjolras that. This is strictly for the business side of things, to keep Enjolras out of the Grantaire drama until Grantaire gets back on his feet. But, well, Enjolras didn’t take to kindly to that, and…” He gestured at his face.

“Let me get this straight.” Jehan’s voice was deathly calm, and Courfeyrac winced. “You told your best friend that he should leave my best friend, and you don’t see a problem with that?”

“It’s not that I don’t see a problem with it,” Courfeyrac replied, wheedling. “But it’s that I see a larger business problem if Enjolras doesn’t do something to signal that he’s able and willing to work regardless of what goes on with Grantaire. You know that this is my job, Jehan.”

Jehan nodded, slowly, his expression inscrutable. “I know that this is your job, Courf, yes. But that crossed a line. I’ve told you about Grantaire, about his problems, about the things he struggles with. Did you hear any of that?”

“Yes, of course—” started Courfeyrac impatiently, but Jehan cut him off.

“Then for you to suggest that Enjolras leave him now, even temporarily, shows that you heard and understood everything I told you about Grantaire. But you just don’t care. And that…” Jehan swallowed, his hand dropping from Courfeyrac’s face. “I don’t know if I can handle that.”

Courfeyrac stared at him. “What do you mean?” he asked quietly. When Jehan didn’t respond, he begged, “Jehan, sweetheart, talk to me. What do you mean you don’t know if you can handle that?”

Swallowing again, Jehan looked away. “I can’t marry you, Courfeyrac.”

“Ok, that’s fine,” said Courfeyrac, starting to panic. He gently took Jehan’s face between his hands, forcing the poet to look at him. “Just tell me that we’re still fine. Tell me that you understand.”

“But I don’t understand.” The words were almost ragged as they burst out of Jehan’s mouth. “I don’t understand how you could think that way. And it…honestly, Courf, it’s making me question everything.” He stepped away from Courfeyrac, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I think we need some time apart.”

Courfeyrac froze, his face blank. “Are you…are you breaking up with me?”

Jehan flinched slightly at the words, but nodded slightly. “Yes. I am.” He looked up to meet Courfeyrac’s gaze, to let him see the anguish in his eyes. “I can’t be torn between you and Grantaire. And Grantaire…he needs me. So for now…”

Grabbing Jehan’s hand, clutching it desperately, Courfeyrac pleaded, “But I need you, too, Jehan, more than you know, more than perhaps I can put into words. Please…”

Still looking anguished, Jehan pulled his hand away from Courfeyrac. “I have to, Courf.”

“Please…” Courfeyrac’s voice cracked and he trailed off for a moment, sounding infinitely more desperate than he ever had. “Please don’t do this, Jehan. I love you and I need you.”

Jehan closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line in a vain effort to stop the tears from spilling down his own face. “I’m sorry, Courfeyrac,” he whispered, trying not to show how much effort it took to speak these words. “I love you. You know that. But I have to support Grantaire. He’s my best friend and he needs me now, more than ever. To be with you after…after all that’s happened…I can’t.”

Courfeyrac had started to cry in earnest, his shoulders shaking violently as he sobbed into his hands. It broke something deep within Jehan to stand there and not reach out and comfort him, to not pull the dark-haired man into his arms and hold him until he was better. In that moment he almost hated Grantaire, just as he almost hated himself for doing this for him.

So it was the hardest thing Jehan had ever had to do to swallow hard and whisper, "You should go."

Looking up at him, Courfeyrac nodded once. “I will. Tomorrow. You’ll never see me again if you don’t want.”

“No, Courf. You should go _now_. I can’t have you here in the city.” _Because if you stay I will change my mind_. “Get back on a plane. Go back to LA.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth as if to argue, but then thought better of it, rocking back on his heels and looking for all the world like a beaten puppy. “I understand,” he whispered. “I’ll go.” Leaning forward, tentatively, he brushed a lock of Jehan’s hair away from his face and pressed a gentle kiss to Jehan’s forehead. Jehan squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to start sobbing then and there. “I love you. And I always will.”

And with that, Jehan could do nothing but watch helplessly as the man he loved walked away at his command, ignoring every instinct in his body that told him to chase him, to go after him, to tell him he was wrong and he was sorry and that he still loved him, loved him so much that it shattered his heart into a million pieces to do what he was doing.

But he didn’t.

* * *

Combeferre drove slowly towards Enjolras and Grantaire’s house, wincing when he saw the mob of paparazzi still waiting outside. They scrambled over to him as soon as he was parked, shouting jumbled questions over each other, some even snapping pictures.

Finally one reporter pushed to the front of the crowd, practically shoving a microphone in front of Combeferre’s face. “Does Enjolras Moreau have a statement regarding the recent events surrounding his husband, or about the fact that his husband remains hospitalized?”

Combeferre sighed and tried not to scowl at her. “Mr. Moreau’s statement remains the same. He thanks his fans for their outpouring of support and asks that the media respects him and his husband’s privacy during this difficult time.”

“What about reports that Grantaire Moreau has suffered a nervous breakdown?” the reporter continued to push, jogging to keep up with Combeferre as he strode across the street to Enjolras’s gate. “And what of reports that Enjolras has looked into hiring a divorce lawyer?”

This froze Combeferre in his tracks. He glared impressively at the assembled group. “There is absolutely no truth to either of those rumors,” he told them firmly. “Mr. Moreau is not divorcing his husband. He loves Grantaire deeply and knows that they can overcome this.”

“Sir, what about reports of shake-ups within Les Amis Productions following Grantaire’s OD? Has Enjolras really fired his agent over this?”

Combeferre snapped irritably, “Any personnel matters occurring within Les Amis Productions are considered confidential. Now go stalk someone else.” With that said, he typed in the access code to the gate and slipped in before they could bombard him with any more questions.

Once inside the gate he let out a sigh that he didn’t know he had been holding and spotted Bahorel leaning against the wall, cigarette dangling from his mouth and what looked suspiciously like a gun holster on his belt. He straightened when he saw Combeferre approaching. “Thank God,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, crushing his cigarette beneath his shoe. “He hasn’t left the house in three days. Please tell me you’re going to talk some sense into him.”

“I’m going to try,” Combeferre told him, looking pointedly at Bahorel’s gun. “I was unaware that you were now going around armed.”

Bahorel shrugged and grinned. “I got my concealed carry permit approved. Though since I’m on private property that technically doesn’t matter. Either way, I like to make a big show of it every morning. I sit just inside the drive with the gate open so the paparazzi can watch me clean and load it. Helps keep them from being worse than usual and climbing the walls or something.”

Though Combeferre still frowned in disapproval, he couldn’t help but think that it probably wasn’t a terrible idea. Enjolras was dealing with more than enough at the moment. “Thanks, Bahorel,” he told him before going inside.

He didn’t bother knocking, just headed straight for Enjolras’s bedroom, where he assumed the blond man would be. He had assumed correctly, but was still startled by the sight on Enjolras wrapped in one of Grantaire’s hoodies as he lay on the bed, the smell of stale beer in the air with beer cans scattered around him. “Enjolras…” Combeferre sighed, stepping around empty beer cans to sit awkwardly on the end of the bed. “You have to stop this.”

“Stop what?” Enjolras asked tonelessly, showing no reaction to Combeferre’s sudden presence.

Combeferre poked him, hard. “Stop lying here like somebody’s died. Grantaire's going to be fine. Once the inpatient rehab is done in a few days, you'll be together and he'll be fine."

Shrugging, Enjolras stared determinedly at the ceiling. “Will he, though? I mean, we don’t know that, do we? And I’m not even allowed to see him, to talk to him. Think of all the things that could be running through his head right now."

"This is the best thing for him, Enj," said Combeferre firmly. "It gives him time for his new meds to kick in, and to start the process of getting clean. But in the meantime, you can't just stop living your life."

Enjolras rolled over. “What am I supposed to do, Ferre? Go walking around town like there’s nothing wrong? Like everything is fucking wonderful? Let the paparazzi and media hound me to give them all the intimate details of the latest fuckup in my marriage?”

“You’ve got to give them something, Enjolras,” said Combeferre tiredly. “You not saying anything is only making the situation worse because they can imagine anything they want. All they need is for someone who claims to be close to you to substantiate it.”

Enjolras just turned to look at him, and Combeferre was surprised by the storm of emotions in Enjolras’s eyes, especially when compared to how dead his voice sounded. “What am I supposed to say to them, Ferre? What do I tell them that they don’t already know? Tell them that I’m in love with a beautiful but damaged man and that I don’t know how to help him anymore and that I can’t sleep at night for fear of losing him? You want me to tell them that?”

Sighing, Combeferre said steadily, “Yeah, I do. Because the alternative is ten times worse. There’s rumors going around now that you’re looking to get divorced.”

“That’s a lie.” Enjolras’s voice was sharp, angry. “I would never in a million years even consider doing that. Nothing can ever go so far or so wrong to make me consider that.”

Combeferre met his gaze levelly. “There’s no need for you to tell me that. You need to tell _them_ that.” They stared at each other for a few minutes, Enjolras hesitant, Combeferre calm, until Enjolras bit his lip and nodded, looking away. “Good. Courfeyrac’s got it all arranged, he was just waiting on the go-ahead from you. It’s going to be a cover story. ‘Enjolras Moreau Stands By His Man,’ or something like that.”

Now Enjolras frowned, almost confused, and asked quietly, “Courfeyrac?”

“Yeah,” said Combeferre, equally as quiet. “He came back into the office two days after you…” _Fired him_ hung in the air, but neither man said it. “Didn’t say a word. Just went right to work as if none of it had happened. I think…” Here Combeferre hesitated again, not sure if telling Enjolras was the right thing to do. “I think he and Jehan may have broken up.”

Enjolras just sighed and shook his head sadly, but didn’t say anything. After a long silence, he said softly, “I feel like everything’s falling to pieces, Ferre. And I don’t know how to hold it all together. And I definitely don’t know what to do if I can’t.”

Combeferre touched him gently on the shoulder. “Maybe it’s time for you to realize that it’s not on you to hold it all together. If you keep holding on as tightly as you are, Enjolras, I’m less concerned of everything falling apart as I am about you breaking under the strain. Maybe…maybe it’s time you went to see a psychologist as well. Just to have someone to talk to. Let us be strong for a little bit while you can’t.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” murmured Enjolras, keeping his eyes averted. Combeferre nodded and launched into talking more about the press circuit Courfeyrac had planned, but Enjolras kept replaying Combeferre’s words in his head. _Let us be strong for a little bit while you can’t_. That was just the thing – Enjolras had to be strong. He had promised Grantaire that he would always be strong for him, always be there for him, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

And there wasn’t a psychologist in the world who could help him with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, check out this awesome graphic made by [pamillise!!](http://pamillise.tumblr.com/) <http://pamillise.tumblr.com/post/50050055709/a-gift-for-kjack89-because-amazing-fics-and>


	15. Act II, Scene 6 - "I'd Give It All For You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I purposefully skip over a lot of time in this chapter. Not because the things that I skip over aren't important, but because they're about recovery and therapy and a lot of things that I find difficult to write. As always, if you've got an issue with anything, you know where to find me.
> 
> Usual disclaimer.

Act II, Scene 6 – “I’d Give It All For You” – _Songs for a New World_

“ _God knows it’s easy to hide_  
 _Easy to hide from the things that you feel_  
 _And harder to blindly trust what you can’t understand_  
 _God knows it’s easy to run_  
 _Easy to run from the people you love_  
 _But harder to stand and fight for the things you believe_

_Nothing about us was perfect or clear_  
 _But when paradise calls me I’d rather be here_  
 _There’s something between us that nobody else needs to see_

_It’s harder to touch the things that dearer_  
 _I love you too much to trust something clearer_  
 _I know I fell too far_  
 _But here you are_ ”

There were no words to describe how Enjolras felt upon finally, _finally_ being able to see Grantaire. Relief was not enough to describe the way his heart sang with the joy of seeing him looking so healthy, so alive, so little like he had looked before when collapsed on the floor. Joy itself was not enough to explain the feeling that ran through his entire body as he crossed the room to press a trembling hand against Grantaire’s cheek.

Centuries of poetry could not describe the way their eyes shone, blue meeting blue, foreheads pressed together. Every love song ever written had tried to capture what passed between the two men in the instant before their lips met, but none could even come close.

After a long moment, they broke apart, though Enjolras’s arms remained wrapped firmly around Grantaire. “I missed you,” he told him, perhaps unnecessarily.

“Not nearly as much as I missed you,” Grantaire whispered. He stepped away from Enjolras slightly, looking up at him, his face serious. “I’m sorry.”

Enjolras gripped both Grantaire’s hands in his own. “There’s no need to apologize—” he started, but Grantaire cut him off.

Grantaire pulled one of his hands from Enjolras’s to press his fingers gently against Enjolras’s lips. “No. Let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “I am sorry. Sorry for what I put you through, sorry for what you must have thought. I’m not sorry for the things I can’t change, because that would be pointless, but I am sorry for acting the way I did, for scaring you the way I did, and for being the biggest fucking idiot of all time.”

“You did scare me,” Enjolras whispered against Grantaire’s fingers, still pressed against his mouth. “You scared me so goddamn much, Taire. I thought I was going to lose you.”

Grantaire nodded, his eyes sad. “I know. And I’m so, so sorry for putting you through that. I can’t promise that nothing like that will happen again, because look at what happened when I promised that before. But I will promise that I will try harder than ever.”

Nodding as well, Enjolras looked carefully at him. “And you’re better now?”

“As better as I can be,” said Grantaire, his voice a little wry. “All hopped up on a new drug regimen. With orders to see the psychiatrist at least once a month to reevaluate and readjust, and the psychologist even more frequently than that.”

Enjolras nodded again, his eyes questioning. “When do you need to see the psychologist next?”

“Probably not for a couple weeks. They got the meds pretty well balanced at this point and I spent half of my time here blathering at the psychologist so there’s not going to be much to share with the shrink.” He cocked his head quizzically. “Why?”

Shrugging, Enjolras said casually, “I thought it might be best for you to go to New York for awhile. Visit Jehan. Get out of LA, get away from all…this.”

Grantaire bit his lip, looking up at Enjolras with worried eyes. “Are you…are you sending me away?”

Realizing what it had sounded like, Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it. “Oh, God, Taire, no, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. _We_ are going to New York to visit Jehan for a bit. I need a break just as much as you do.”

Though Grantaire grinned excitedly, he also looked a little suspicious. “What about your job? What about the show?”

Enjolras winced. “Ah. Well. They’ve, uh, decided to go a different direction, creatively.”

“You got fired?” Grantaire gaped, and his eyes welled with tears. “Because of me? Enj…”

“It had very little to do with you,” said Enjolras gently, capturing Grantaire’s hand to brush a kiss across his knuckles. “I promise. It came down to financing and advertisements and a whole lot of things that are beyond your control or my control or anyone’s control, really. So do _not_ blame yourself, ok? Because this way I get to spend a lot more time with you. It can be just you and me for a bit, the way it always should have been.” Grantaire did not look convinced, and Enjolras sighed, kissing his forehead. “I promise you, everything will work out in the end. Courfeyrac’s got some deals in the works, maybe even another movie. But for right now, it’s you and me.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Is Courf going to come with us to visit Jehan?”

Enjolras, who had been combing his fingers through Grantaire’s curls almost absentmindedly, tensed, his hands pausing their motion. “Ah. No. About that…”  

* * *

 

Jehan waited as patiently as he could in the baggage claim at JFK. He _knew_ Grantaire was fine, had even spoken with him briefly on the phone, but wouldn’t really be able to believe it until he saw him for himself. When Enjolras had called while Grantaire was still in the hospital and asked if they could come visit, Jehan had agreed instantly. He had regretted it mere moments later when he realized that meant it would be easily a week before he would see Grantaire, before he could punch him and tell him how much of a fucking asshole he was for putting them all through this.

So it was with a week’s worth of pent-up feelings that Jehan and Grantaire’s eyes met across the baggage claim, and in mere seconds Jehan had raced over to him, punching him as hard as he could in the arm. “Ouch,” said Grantaire, wincing visibly. “Fuck’s sake, Prouvaire, I almost died and that’s how you treat me?”

“Yes, because you _almost fucking died_ ,” Jehan hissed. Then he threw his arms around Grantaire. “Do you know how much I would have missed you, you dumbass?”

Grantaire’s laugh rumbled against him. “Yeah, because who would you treat as a punching bag then?”

His tone was joking, but there was an apologetic undertone to it, an undertone that Jehan alone could pick up on from years of living together. “You’re a stupid fucking idiot,” Jehan told him, hugging him as tightly as he possibly could.

Grantaire hugged him back, equally as bone-crushing, but when they broke apart, there was a stormy look in his eyes. “I’m not the only one who’s made stupid life decisions of late,” he said quietly, and Jehan blushed.

“Enjolras told you?”

Grantaire frowned slightly, his expression for the most part inscrutable. “Yeah, he told me. And we’re definitely going to need to talk about it.”

As Enjolras came up and slipped his hand into Grantaire’s, Jehan smiled weakly at them both. “Later,” he promised, even though his heart sank at the thought.

Once back at his place, Jehan noticed how Enjolras stayed close to Grantaire’s side, touching him lightly at all times. The touches were subtle – a hand on the small of Grantaire’s back, shoulders brushing together, fingers lightly tracing along Grantaire’s forearm. It was as if Enjolras were reassuring himself that Grantaire really was there, or if he were to stop touching him, Grantaire would disappear from his side.

Though Jehan appreciated and understood this, it made talking to Grantaire a bit more difficult. He decided to get the elephant in the room out of the way first, clearing his throat quietly. “How…how is he?” he asked Enjolras, hoping his face remained passive.

“Courfeyrac? About as well as can be expected,” Enjolras answered. “He misses you.”

Grantaire shifted awkwardly next to Enjolras. “You didn’t have to do that,” he told Jehan. “I’m not worth that.”

Enjolras’s hand gripped Grantaire’s and his eyes flashed at the words, but he didn’t say anything, letting Jehan defend his actions. “You’re my best friend, R,” said Jehan softly. “Of course you’re worth that. After all we’ve been through together…”

“I may be your best friend, but he’s the love of your life.” Grantaire’s voice was flat. “You breaking up with him…how does that help me at all, Jehan? It doesn’t. Which you well know.”

Jehan shook his head. “No, you’re mistaking me breaking up with Courf as being somehow _for_ you, when it wasn’t. _About_ you, perhaps, a little, but there’s a lot more to it than that. I love him, yes, but we need some time apart to figure out if that’s enough to sustain this.”

Frowning, Grantaire asked quietly, “Isn’t love always enough?”

Jehan looked at him pointedly. “I don’t know, Grantaire. Is it?”

Grantaire blushed and looked away. “It should be.”

“But sometimes it isn’t,” Enjolras cut in smoothly, his fingers lacing with Grantaire’s. “And I personally think it’s wise of Jehan and Courf to take a step back and make sure this is really what they want. All the ups and downs that come with it.”

Turning his head to look up at Enjolras, Grantaire asked lightly, “Did you ever take a step back to make sure this is really what you want?”

Enjolras smiled slightly and dropped a kiss to his lips. “I never needed to. You were always going to be stuck with me forever.”

“Not helping the guy who just went through a breakup over here,” Jehan groused, pouting slightly.

“Sorry, Jehan,” Enjolras and Grantaire echoed in unison.

Grantaire stood, offering his free hand to Jehan. “Come on, let’s go do something. We’ll take your mind off of it.”

* * *

 

The week they spent in New York with Jehan was easily the happiest they had both felt in a long time. Reality soon came calling, though, and they returned to LA, trying to bring the bliss they had felt with them.

Grantaire kept to his word, seeing the psychologist and psychiatrist regularly. Enjolras felt worried at first when he saw the vast array of pills Grantaire now took, but as they seemed to have the desired effect, he didn’t say anything.

They had good days, and bad, as was to be expected. They fought, they made up, they laughed, they cried. But most importantly, they did it all together, with each other, breathing each other in as if for the first time.

A few months after Grantaire got out of the hospital, Courfeyrac stopped by the house. “Courf!” said Enjolras cheerfully, opening the door to let him in. “Grantaire’s upstairs. Still asleep. What can I do for you?”

Courfeyrac glared at him. “To begin with, you can start working again. You haven’t had a solid gig in months. And that rom-com you did doesn’t count.” Enjolras just shrugged. It had paid well and hadn’t had a demanding shooting schedule, making it the perfect thing for him at the time. And the reviews hadn’t been _that_ bad. “I’ve got a part for you. An amazing part. Perfect for you. We’re talking Oscar-worthy right here.”

Enjolras glanced down at the script and raised an eyebrow. “A biopic of Robespierre? Really, Courf?”

“Yeah, really. Spielberg’s directing. You remember _Lincoln_ , right? Imagine that, but with you.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Enjolras’s mouth, though he tried to quash it. “What are my chances even of getting it?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Well, for starters, you’re literally at the top of his list. So pretty fucking good.” He leaned in. “You could win an Oscar for this, Enj. There’s already buzz about this film and it hasn’t even been cast yet. Think about _that_.”

“Courf, this sounds perfect. Of course I’ll audition for it. But what’s the catch?”

Frowing, Courfeyrac said slowly, “I don’t follow your meaning.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. “You could have told me any of this over the phone and instead you came all the way out here to sell this to me. There has to be a reason for it.”

Courfeyrac blushed slightly. “Ah. Well. I was hoping not to have to talk about this until after you auditioned…they want to film on location. In Paris. As much as possible, anyway. And the studio…” He trailed off.

“What about the studio?” asked Enjolras impatiently.

Courfeyrac met his gaze steadily. “The studio said that if you got cast, Grantaire isn’t allowed to come with to shooting. It’s a liability issue. Insurance won’t cover him on set, not after…everything.”

Enjolras froze. “So I’d have to be on location for two months without Grantaire?” He frowned. “But he could still come to Paris with me, couldn’t he?”

“Enjolras…you know how these things work. The studio will be putting you up in a hotel. You’ll have ridiculously early call times and obscenely late nights. Even if Grantaire came along, he’d have to stay in a separate hotel room, you’d never see him, and he’d be by himself all the time.”

“As opposed to him being by himself all the time here.” Enjolras’s voice was quiet, almost defeated. “I’ll have to talk to Grantaire about this before I make any decisions, Courf.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything different. But…” He hesitated. “This may be overstepping things, but should you wait until you find out you got cast? I just…stirring up trouble when things may not come to pass…”

Enjolras frowned slightly and nodded. “For once, Courf, your logic is actually correct.”

“For once I have my head out of my ass,” muttered Courfeyrac, giving Enjolras a sheepish smile, which Enjolras returned almost reluctantly. “I have an audition set for you for Tuesday at 10. Does that work?”

Nodding, Enjolras moved to write it on the calendar that hung from the fridge. “Yes. That works for me. And Courf…” He turned to face him, and many unsaid things hung between the two men for a moment before Enjolras dipped his head slightly and said softly, “Thank you. For everything.”

* * *

 

A week later, Courfeyrac got the call officially offering Enjolras the role, and Enjolras finally had to have the conversation with Grantaire that he had been dreading. That afternoon, he sat down across from Grantaire, who instantly looked concerned. “What’s wrong?” Grantaire asked warily.

“Nothing’s wrong, per se,” Enjolras hedged before sighing. “I got a job. A movie role. Biopic about Robespierre, with Spielberg as director.”

Grantaire gaped at him. “Steven Spielberg as director? Holy shit, Enj, that’s huge.” He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Why do you look like someone’s died, though? Did you kill someone for the part?”

Enjolras flushed slightly. “No of course not—” he started, but Grantaire was on a roll.

“I mean, I’m not saying that I would be ok with you killing someone, but as your husband I would do everything in my power to help you hide the body and clean the crime scene. Feels like the least I could do, anyway, after everything—”

“Grantaire, I didn’t kill anyone,” snapped Enjolras, the tension causing him to sound angrier than the situation required. “Just, listen, alright? This is the role of a lifetime. But it’s being filmed on location, and Taire…the studio has forbidden you from coming. For insurance purposes. So if I took this role, I’d be away from you for two months.”

Grantaire stilled, his eyes widening. “Oh,” he said softly in a small voice.

Enjolras sighed. “Yeah. Oh.”

Hesitant, Grantaire stated quietly, “Two months is a long time.”

“Two months is a very long time,” Enjolras agreed. “I would miss you every single day that I was gone.”

“I could come visit…?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I already discussed it with Courf. With the shooting schedule we’re looking at, I’m going to be going nonstop. There wouldn’t be any point in you visiting since I wouldn’t see you at all while you were there.”

Nodding his head slowly, Grantaire asked quietly, “Do you want to take the role, Enj?”

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it,” Enjolras said softly, his eyes not leaving Grantaire’s. “But I also don’t want to be apart from you for that long. And besides, what I want doesn’t really matter.”

Grantaire shook his head exasperatedly. “Of course it matters. This is your decision, not mine. If you want this role, you should take it. I will deal with whatever I have to, even if it means being apart from you for two months.” Leaning in, he grabbed one of Enjolras’s hands in both of his own. “You’ve sacrificed so much for me. And I always knew what I was getting into when I married you. Yes, it will be hard, and yes, I will miss you like crazy, but we’ll get through it.”

Enjolras kissed him, lightly, resting his forehead against Grantaire’s. “You’ve already sacrificed a lot for me as well,” he reminded him.

Smiling crookedly, Grantaire let out a small huff of laughter. “Not really,” he said lightly. “Only if by sacrifice you mean act like a complete asshat and be more selfish and self-destructive than any person has a right to be.” His smile faded slightly as his expression became serious. “I mean it, though. If you want this part, you should take it. I will always support you. And this sounds like a phenomenal opportunity.” He paused, then added with a mischievous grin, “Though I was unaware that you were so into the French Revolution.”

Grinning as well, Enjolras leaned in and kissed him. “Then I’ll take the part. And in the meantime, you and I are going to spend all of our time together to make up for the two months when I won’t see you.” He kissed Grantaire again, hungrily this time. “And you know how I feel about the French Revolution.”

“Oh, yes, how could I forget,” mocked Grantaire, his grin widening as he tugged Enjolras toward their bedroom. “There was that one time in bed when you called me…what was it? Saint-Just? Robespierre? Ah, no, now I remember…Patria.”

“That never happened!” protested Enjolras even as he laughed at the thought.

Grantaire wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s neck and looked up at him seriously. “No, but if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you call me Patria…if you want…”

Their laughter echoed through the house as Enjolras shut the bedroom door behind them.

* * *

 

A few nights before Enjolras was set to leave for Paris, he and Grantaire were invited to an intimate industry gathering to celebrate the new film. Intimate in Hollywood talk meant about 500 guests, so Enjolras told Grantaire that he didn’t have to come with. Grantaire, however, insisted, so the two walked hand in hand into the party. “Stay close to me,” Enjolras whispered into Grantaire’s ear.

The look Grantaire shot him was equal parts exasperated and loving. “Why, afraid of what I’ll do?” he asked, only half-teasing.

Enjolras’s lips quirked in a small smile. “No,” he said simply. “I just want you at my side.”

Grantaire mimed vomiting, but he squeezed Enjolras’s hand even tighter. They meandered around the party, Grantaire enjoying a glass of champagne – when Enjolras had given him a look, Grantaire had said, “The doctor says it’s fine in moderation, alright?”

Finally, Enjolras frowned. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom. Will you be alright on your own?”

Rolling his eyes at him, Grantaire said, “I’m not a child, Enj. I can look after myself for a bit. Maybe I’ll introduce myself. Make some friends. I am capable of talking to people without you.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes as well but pressed a quick kiss to Grantaire’s temple before letting go of his hand for the first time all evening. Despite Grantaire’s protestations, he hurried to the bathroom as quickly as possible, not wanting to leave Grantaire alone for a second longer than he needed to. On the way back, he stopped to grab a glass of champagne for himself – why not? They were celebrating after all – when he saw Grantaire shaking hands with some actor Enjolras vaguely recognized as being from the popular teen movies du jour. He smiled slightly, thinking that maybe Grantaire was capable of being in this world without him constantly by his side, but the smile froze when he saw Grantaire pocket something that the guy had slipped him.

His heart felt simultaneously like it couldn’t beat fast enough and was also beating far too fast. His hands were shaking, and he drained his glass of champagne before he either spilled it or broke it. He couldn’t believe what he had just seen. His mind kept racing back to images of Grantaire passed out, convulsing on the floor, images of Grantaire in the ambulance, images of Grantaire almost dead…

No. He was not going to let them go down that road. Not again.

Enjolras strode over to Grantaire, grabbing his arm. Grantaire turned, laughing, and his eyes lit up at seeing Enjolras. “Hey, I was just talking about you—” he started, but Enjolras cut him off.

“Gentlemen, I hope you don’t mind, I need to borrow my husband for a moment.” Without waiting to hear their murmured assent, he practically dragged an increasingly confused Grantaire away to a quiet corner.

“Enjolras, what—?” Wordlessly, Enjolras spun Grantaire so he faced him, and reached down to retrieve the little baggie from Grantaire’s front pocket, holding it between two fingers. Grantaire flushed. “I can explain…”

Enjolras’s eyes hardened. “No. No explanations. Not this time. We’re leaving.”

Grantaire nodded mutely, his eyes wide, and he followed Enjolras out meekly. They didn’t say one word the entire ride home. It wasn’t until they were in the kitchen that Enjolras said coldly, “Again, Taire? After everything?”

“It wasn’t…it’s not…I wasn’t planning on using them!” Grantaire protested.

Enjolras arched an eyebrow at him. “Really? You expect me to believe that?”

Glaring, Grantaire retorted, “Yeah, I do. I haven’t used any non-prescribed drugs since I got out of the hospital, and I was planning on flushing that the first chance I got. What did you want me to do, Enjolras, hand it back to the guy? So he could go on and give them to someone else?”

Hesitating for the first time, Enjolras asked quietly, “You really weren’t going to use them?”

“I really wasn’t going to use them,” Grantaire pronounced solemnly. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that. Not after everything."

Enjolras sank into a chair, cradling his head in hands. “God, Taire, you have no idea how I felt when I saw you take that baggie.”

Grantaire touched his shoulder, tentatively. “I know. And I’m sorry. You have no reason to trust me, not after everything."

“At least tell me, did you feel like using tonight?”

Grantaire’s hand dropped from Enjolras’s shoulder. “I…I don’t know how to answer that. The temptation is always there, you know that.”

“I do know that,” Enjolras agreed, his eyes meeting Grantaire’s squarely. “But that’s not what I’m asking. Tonight, did you want to snort cocaine? Did you feel like you needed to snort cocaine, to get through tonight?” Grantaire didn’t speak, but the look on his face said it all. “Fuck, Taire,” Enjolras winced, pulling him in close. “I’m sorry. I can’t keep doing this to you.”

Grantaire cupped his cheek gently. “You’re not doing any of this to me,” he told him sincerely. “I’m an addict. That’s not your fault.”

Enjolras shook his head. “But I drag you to these industry functions and they’re triggers for you and I should know that. Especially by now.”

“You have to go,” Grantaire reminded him gently. “It’s a part of your job, an expectation. And I…I want to be there for you.”

Frowning, Enjolras replied, voice equally as gentle, “But you shouldn’t have to be in situations like this. Not because of me.” Pausing, his eyes searched Grantaire’s, and he said slowly, “I would leave all of this behind, right now, for you.”

“I don’t…” Grantaire started, then shook his head, tearing his eyes from Enjolras. “I don’t want that.”

“Then what _do_ you want?” Grantaire remained silent, his eyes downcast and his arms crossed in from of his chest. Sighing, Enjolras ran a hand through his hard. “I’m going to call Courfeyrac in the morning and pull out of the movie.”

Grantaire looked up at him, shocked. “You can’t do that. This is _your_ role – the role of a lifetime. You could win an Oscar for this.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “None of that matters now,” he said in a low voice, sincerity ringing through every quiet syllable. “I can’t go be on location and leave you here alone. Not now.”

In a defeated voice, Grantaire asked softly, “Because you can’t trust me?”

Enjolras’s eyes locked on to Grantaire’s, and Grantaire was surprised to see the sadness there. “Because I love you.”

Grantaire swallowed, hard. “You still can’t pull out of the film. Not for me,” he said desperately. “I’m not—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘worth it’, I swear to God, Grantaire,” Enjolras practically growled, his forehead knit in fury. “You are worth _everything_ to me. I just wish you could see that.”

Sighing, Grantaire replied quietly, “I do see that. I don’t understand it, and I never will, and some days I can’t bring myself to believe it. But I do see it. I just…” He paused. “I want you to go.” Grantaire’s voice was soft, his eyes glued to the floor, but there was a finality, a certainty, to his statement. “I don’t want to be your burden. I won’t hold you back from one of the biggest films of your career. I’ve done enough to sidetrack things. And I’ll keep going to therapy and NA while you’re gone, I promise, but…” He looked up. “You have to go, Enjolras. I’ll never forgive myself if you stay.”

Enjolras reached out, touching his cheek gently, almost hesitantly, tracing Grantaire’s cheekbone with his thumb. “But how will I forgive myself if I leave?”

Grantaire’s hand covered Enjolras’s, holding it warm against his cheek. “You’ll forgive yourself because you know that I asked you to go. That I wanted you to go. Because as you’ve always said, we’re strong enough to get through this.”

Pulling away ever so slightly, Enjolras looked seriously at Grantaire. “Do you believe that? Truly?” 

There was only a brief hesitation before Grantaire said slowly, “I believe in you. I always have.”

“That’s not what I asked. Do you believe that we’re strong enough to get through this?”

This time, there was no hesitation as Grantaire met Enjolras’s gaze firmly. “If you believe it, that’s enough for me.” He smiled, a little crooked, a little sad. “I believe it.”

Enjolras’s hand slid through Grantaire’s hair to cup the base of his skull and pull him in for a kiss. It was both hard and sweet, gentle and passionate, but most importantly, absolutely full of love. Grantaire gripped the front of Enjolras’s shirt, pulling him in closer, his reciprocated kiss full of want and need, with a tinge of desperation.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, wrapped in each other’s arms. When they finally broke apart, faces still mere inches from each other, Enjolras sighed deeply. “Fine. Then I will do this movie. Because you want me to. And because you’ll be fine.”

Though it wasn’t phrased like a question, Grantaire nonetheless echoed reassuringly, “Because I _will_ be fine.”

Enjolras smiled slightly, but his eyes hardened. “Even so, once this film is done, I’m done, too. With all of this. You and I, we’re going to move back to New York. It’s been way too long since I was onstage. We’re going to make an honest-to-goodness home for ourselves in the city we both love. And we’re going to happy.”

“I’m happy wherever I am, as long as I’m with you,” whispered Grantaire, leaning in to kiss Enjolras, but Enjolras stopped him.

“But you’re not, Taire. That’s the problem.” Enjolras sighed and pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead. “But you and I _will_ be happy again. Together. I promise you that.”

This time when Grantaire leaned in to kiss Enjolras, Enjolras let him. “I believe you,” whispered Grantaire against his lips.

* * *

 

Enjolras and Grantaire lingered outside of their doorway, Enjolras’s arms wrapped around Grantaire’s waist while Grantaire’s snaked around Enjolras’s neck. “I know that I want you to go,” murmured Grantaire in between pressing kisses to Enjolras’s lips. “But now that it’s here, I don’t want you to leave.”

Enjolras’s kissed him back, arms tightening their grip. “Say the word and I’ll stay. You know I will.”

“I know.” Grantaire’s hands gripped the back of Enjolras’s t-shirt for a brief moment before releasing, moving to press flatly against Enjolras’s chest. “But you need to go.”

It was Enjolras’s turn to whisper to Grantaire, “I know,” while clutching him even closer.

They stayed as closely pressed together as they could for as long a moment as they dared while Feuilly and Bahorel waited in the car for Enjolras. “I love you,” Grantaire whispered, his lips moving against the taut skin of Enjolras’s neck.

Enjolras smiled and pressed a kiss against Grantaire’s forehead. “And I love you. More than words. More than my life.” He pulled away to look Grantaire in the eyes. “I’ll call you when I get in, alright? And it won’t be that long, ok? I promise. I will see you soon.”

Grantaire half-smiled up at him. “Ok,” he whispered. “I’ll see you soon.”


	16. Act II, Scene 7 - "Bare"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is very different. It's disjointed, the pieces don't always flow well, and it's broken into smaller pieces than normal.
> 
> It's supposed to be. 
> 
> The timeline is also muddled on purpose. Some things may seem out of place in the timeline; the amount of time passing in between parts may not make sense. In all, this scene takes place over the course of about 5 days. 
> 
> Usual disclaimer applies. I apologize for the probably higher rate of errors than usual - I graduated from grad school yesterday, so I've been writing this chapter in between doing eighteen thousand other things.

Act II, Scene 7 – “Bare” – _bare: A Pop Opera_

“ _I will always remember_  
 _That first stolen moment_  
 _There you were kissing me_  
 _And time seemed to freeze_  
 _Now I stand at a crossroads_  
 _And I stare at a question_  
 _If prayer were the answer_  
 _I’d fall on my knees_  
 _But forward is calling_  
 _And I cannot stay here_  
 _A parting of souls as I try to move on_  
 _How do I forget the dream you shared with me?_ ”

 

It was Combeferre.

It was Combeferre who knocked on his door, far too early in the morning for Enjolras to be even remotely coherent.

It was Combeferre, and they had probably chosen him to do it because they assumed that his and Enjolras’s friendship was strongest, and could last through anything.

But since it was Combeferre who told him, whose shaking voice delivered the news, it was at Combeferre that Enjolras’s irrational rage was directed.

But not initially. His first reaction was laughter, weak and tired, half-muffled as he rolled over to bury his face back in his pillow. It was a bad joke, at best, a weak attempt at humor.

His second reaction was confusion. He must be tired, or still dreaming. Combeferre’s mouth was moving, words were coming out, words he was fairly convinced were English. But their meaning – it was wrong. It didn’t make sense. It was completely meaningless.

When the joke didn’t end and the dream didn’t wear off, that was when Enjolras became angry. He wanted Combeferre to _stop_ , to stop talking, to stop lying, to stop standing there shaking with something like tears in his eyes. He wanted Combeferre to stop repeating over and over on a loop maybe only in Enjolras’s head, the words that cut away everything that made up Enjolras’s life.

“I’m so, so sorry…Grantaire is dead.”

* * *

 

Enjolras didn’t cry.

He sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, a flurry of activity happening around him, production assistants rushing around, following Combeferre’s orders as they packed Enjolras’s things for him. Combeferre was on the phone with someone, God only knew who – the studio, the director, the producers – taking care of things in his quiet but firm way.

He didn’t cry.

To cry would be to acknowledge that he felt sad. He didn’t feel sad. He didn’t feel angry. He didn’t feel upset.

He didn’t feel anything.

And that was wrong, wasn’t it? He should feel…something. Grief, sadness, loss. Instead he felt numb.

Where flames of fury and rage should be consuming him, there was just emptiness. Blankness.

 _Denial_ , he thought in a detached, almost clinical way. That was the first stage of grief, wasn’t it? Denial. Maybe his denial was manifesting in nothingness.

Because it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t…he couldn’t…The thought that somehow he lived in a world where he lived and Grantaire did not, where his heart now beat in a world where it was alone…it didn’t make _sense_. It couldn’t be _real_.

So he sat in silence, staring at the wall. Grantaire would’ve have laughed, told him that he was _thinking so goddamn loudly_ and pressed kisses all over his cheeks until Enjolras would’ve broken down and laughed. But Grantaire would’ve been wrong. It was as if he brain had forgotten how to think, how to piece words together in a coherent fashion.

Grantaire would have told him, in that husky voice he used when trying to be seductive, with a wild gleam in his eyes, that now was not the time for talking. Grantaire would’ve distracted him, the way Grantaire had distracted him a thousand times before, while running lines or doing warmups or even just reading the paper.

And if Grantaire hadn’t known what to do, Grantaire would’ve kissed him, gently, on the lips, or just held his hand, or let him cuddle up next to him, running his fingers gently through Enjolras’s golden curls.

But Grantaire wasn’t there. Grantaire was thousands of miles away. And Grantaire would never be able to do any of those things again because Grantaire…

He couldn’t complete the thought. There was a gaping chasm where the end of that thought should be, and no matter how Enjolras steeled himself to try and force his thoughts in that direction, they refused.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t speak, either. His thoughts were a muddled mess of nothing, and to vocalize that was something for which language has never intended. Or if it were language’s intent, it was language that never came from Enjolras’s tongue, but from the lips of poets and songwriters.

Speaking of poets, Enjolras’s heart gave a faint twist at the thought of Jehan, the first real emotion he had felt all morning. He wondered if Jehan knew…if anyone had told him. He twisted his head around, trying to wordlessly catch Combeferre’s attention.

“Jehan,” he finally managed, softly.

Combeferre turned to him, concerned. “What?”

Enjolras cleared his throat. “Did anyone tell Jehan?”

Still looking at him concernedly, Combeferre said slowly, “I think Courfeyrac called him…”

Enjolras nodded, slowly, his head feeling so very, very heavy. “Good. Someone…someone should tell him.” His voice was shaking. “He…he needs to know…to know…to know that…”

“Enjolras—”

Enjolras shook his head, almost violently. “He needs to know,” he whispered.

He didn’t cry.

* * *

 

“Enjolras?” Combeferre sounded unsure, an emotion that did not fit him. Enjolras did not respond, simply looking at him impassively. “They need to know what to do with…with Grantaire’s body.”

Enjolras did not flinch. “Cremate it.”

“Are you…are you sure?”

Enjolras’s eyes met his. “I have little desire to let the body of the man I love decay in the ground. Burn it. Dispose of the ashes.”

Combeferre looked confused and concerned. “You don’t want them?”

“If I can’t have the real thing, I’m not going to settle for a damn poor representation.”

* * *

 

Courfeyrac and Jehan met them at the airport. Enjolras did not question Jehan’s presence, assuming he had flown in on hearing the news. He could not find it in himself to care.

No one seemed willing to touch Enjolras, though Courfeyrac had looked like he had wanted to hug him upon seeing him.

Instead, they all went wordlessly back to the house.

Enjolras drifted through the empty house, eyes and face blank. Courfeyrac and Jehan settled worriedly in the living room, not wanting to go with him, not wanting to watch him prowl through the house as if searching for Grantaire in the empty rooms.

A few minutes later, Enjolras joined them, still impassive. “You two don’t have to stay,” he told them, his voice soft. “I’m fine.”

They exchanged glances. “You’re not fine, Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac, his voice strangely heated.

Shrugging, Enjolras sat primly in the armchair, staring straight ahead of himself. “Do as you wish.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Courfeyrac asked cautiously.

Enjolras just shrugged again. “What really is there to talk about?”

“So many thing, Enj. So many questions to answer.” Jehan’s voice was weak and strangely high-pitched, barely sounding like his own.

A brief flicker stirred in Enjolras’s eyes, only to be tamped down a moment later. “Then ask. I cannot guarantee any answers, though.”

Leaning forward, Jehan clenched his hands in front of him. “What were the last words you spoke to him?” he asked, his voice small, cracking with grief.

Enjolras looked up, stone-faced. “Why do you want to know?”

Jehan hesitated. “Because…Because I want to try and figure out why, and if you two fought, it might at least…make some kind of sense.”

Shaking his head almost dazedly, Enjolras murmured, “No, we didn’t fight. If we had…if that were the reason…” He broke off, unable to continue down that train of thought. “My last words to him were the same thing I said to him every night after we talked on the phone,” he said instead, his voice numb. “I told him, ‘I love you, and I will see you soon.’”

Courfeyrac reached out and wordlessly gripped Enjolras’s shoulder, but Enjolras shrugged him off. “You know what that means,” he said in a low voice. “The last thing I ever said to him was a lie.”

Jehan shot a horrified look at Courfeyrac, who quickly said, “No, Enj, it wasn’t a lie. You told him that you loved him. That was not a lie.”

“Love him.” Enjolras’s reply seemed almost mechanical, but there was a firmness to it that hadn’t been heard previously.

“What?” asked Courfeyrac, almost nervously.

Enjolras looked up at him. “You said that I loved him. I _love_ him. Present-tense. Nothing about that has changed.”

Courfeyrac stammered, “Of…of course. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” Out of the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw Jehan hesitantly take Courfeyrac’s hand. _Good_ , he thought, detachedly. _At least something is working out right for someone_. He looked down at his own hands, sitting loosely in his lap.

He imagined rough fingers sliding between them to lace with his.

And it hit him in that moment – it would never happen again. He was completely, utterly alone.

For the first time, he cried.

* * *

 

He didn’t know if it was morbid that he slept in their room still, wrapped up in one of Grantaire’s hoodies and a pair of his sweatpants. But the hoodie, sweatpants and bed sheets still smelled like Grantaire, and for a few brief moments, he could allow himself to believe that Grantaire was still there.

What was it that one typically said in these situations? Gone too soon?

Because he wasn’t gone, not really, not fully. His clothes were still haphazardly flung around the apartment, his art supplies littered all the free space, his scent still clung to the ratty hoodies and sweatpants Enjolras wore. It was as if Grantaire had stepped out for a moment but would be back any second, looking around the corner with that special grin he reserved just for Enjolras.

And every time Enjolras looked up, expecting to see Grantaire smiling at him and instead seeing nothing, another part of his heart broke.

And he cried as if he would never stop.

* * *

 

“You look terrible.”

Combeferre’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, and Enjolras struggled to focus on his face. “What did you expect?” he rasped.

Combeferre sat down next to him on the bed. “Just because he’s gone doesn’t mean you have to stop living, Enjolras,” he said, voice soft and a little hesitant. Enjolras just stared at him. After a long moment, Combeferre said, even more quietly, “The coroner called with the initial test results from the autopsy. It’ll be weeks before they know for sure what happened, but Enjolras – he died of a heart attack.”

Blinking, Enjolras repeated slowly, “A heart attack?”

“Yeah.” Combeferre took his glasses off to polish them, a nervous tic of his. “Apparently one of Grantaire’s meds can increase risk of sudden heart attacks, and coupled with his heart being weakened from cocaine use—well, it was just too much for his heart to take. But Enjolras, there were no drugs in his system other than his meds.”

Enjolras stared at Combeferre blankly. “What does that mean?”

Combeferre hesitantly reached out to grasp Enjolras’s hand. “It means he didn’t OD, Enj. He wasn’t trying to hurt himself. He wasn’t trying to take himself away from you. It…he…It was an accident. He kept his promise to you.”

It was the last straw, the final injustice in a world made of injustices. To not only lose Grantaire, but to lose Grantaire, after everything, to the one thing that was trying to make him better? Enjolras would have wept and despaired if drugs had taken him, but this – this went beyond weeping.

This crushed his very soul.

If Grantaire had killed himself, whether on purpose or accidentally through an overdose, perhaps Enjolras would have been able to move on, knowing that Grantaire never really belonged with him, never felt comfortable at his side, knowing that Grantaire’s place, much as he had wished it to be, had never truly been with him. But this, knowing that Grantaire wanted to be better, wanted to be at his side, wanted to belong with him for eternity, save for the cruel twist of fate that had parted them so soon...

It was unbearable.

He said as much to Combeferre, in a dead voice devoid of all emotion. “Is this supposed to help? Knowing he didn’t want to go? Knowing that if the world were just he would still be with me right now?”

Combeferre looked stricken. “No, of course not. Nothing will make this better, Enjolras. But surely knowing that he didn’t do anything…”

“But I could at least make some sense of that.” Enjolras’s voice sounded as if he was a thousand years old. “I could…I don’t know, _blame_ someone or something. But I…without him…How am I supposed to make sense of the fact that he should _be here_? Should be with me? How can he just be…gone?”

Combeferre looked old and tired as he said softly, “Sometimes these things just happen, Enjolras. There’s nothing you could have done. And I know that’s not what you want to hear, and I know that it doesn’t help. But he’s gone, Enj. And you can’t sit here like this forever. You have to keep living. It’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Enjolras stared at Combeferre, drawn up, eyes blazing, ready to argue, but then seemed to suddenly deflate. “Right,” he said dully. “Sometimes these things just happen.”

* * *

 

Sometimes he lay in bed and replayed every moment they had shared together. He kept going back to the first time they met, to that first night, laughing together, talking together, that first abrupt kiss.

How different their lives would have been had Grantaire not gone out for a smoke, had Enjolras not stepped out for fresh air

There were so many things he wanted to take back, so many moments he wanted to redo, and every single moment he wanted to relive. If he could live them over and over, like a book that he could flip to the beginning upon completion, even knowing the ending would always be the same, he would do it. In a heartbeat.

But instead he could only revisit his memories, played over in his head like a grainy film, watching every mistake, heart breaking all the harder for it.

* * *

 

Enjolras sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the wall. He didn’t know what time it was; he barely knew what day it was. Time had no meaning to him now. It was just something he was supposed to endure, the same way he was just supposed to endue life.

He wanted Grantaire.

And Grantaire was the one thing he would never again have, never again hold, never again see.

Enjolras did not want to live without Grantaire.

That thought struck Enjolras heavily. It was not so much that he wanted to be dead. He would’ve given anything to have Grantaire back, to have them both living and happy and together. But that wasn’t an option. And staring at the years ahead of him, Enjolras could not understand how he was supposed to just move on, just forget, just keep living as if losing Grantaire was something that could be healed with time. It couldn’t.

And Enjolras did not want to live.

Before this, he would never have been the type to consider suicide. Suicide was the coward’s way out, the last resort for the truly selfish. A permanent solution to a temporary problem.

But what was he if not a coward? What was he if not a man so incapable of facing his own fears that he had abandoned his husband when he needed him most? What was he if not the most selfish man alive, to put Grantaire through all of that, over and over and over again, never realizing, never seeing that he was slowly killing him?

And what problem could be more permanent than the loss of the love of his life?

He imagined it in his head with an almost sick fascination, running through scenarios and possibilities the way he normally ran through blocking and dialogue. Pills seemed a bit crass, given everything. Slitting his wrists had cold merit but also the potential of not doing it correctly and being found and stitched back up. But a gun…a gun muzzle, pressed cold against his temple, the reassuring click of the hammer, and the sharp relief of nothingness…That had great appeal.

If only he had a gun…

Almost unconsciously, he snapped to attention. Bahorel had stashed at least one gun in the house for security purposes, and Enjolras was willing to bet that he had never removed it.

Enjolras almost scrambled up from his perch on the bed, his heart beating faster than it had in days.

How ironic it was that contemplating his own death was the only thing to make him feel alive.

Luckily, Enjolras retained his full capacity for logic and immediately knew which rooms not to look in. Intuition pointed him toward Enjolras’s study – he spent a lot of time in there learning lines and practicing, it was remote and no one was liable to wander in there on accident, and unless Enjolras was mistaken, it had a pretty clear line of sight out of the window.

Sure enough, in the top drawer of the desk that he rarely used, he found the gun. With trembling fingers he lifted it from the drawer and set it on top of the desk. His breath seemed to catch in his throat and his heart pounded in his ears as he traced the barrel of the gun with one finger. His phone buzzed and he answered it without looking. “Hello?”

“Enjolras? It’s Courf. I need to talk to you about…about funeral arrangements.” Courfeyrac’s voice shook only slightly, and Enjolras imagined Jehan next to him, rubbing his back soothingly. “Do you want me to come over so we can talk in person?”

Enjolras pursed his lips slightly. “I don’t think that will be necessary. We can talk over the phone?”

There was only a brief hesitation. “Um, ok. So since Grantaire was cremated, we…we thought that a private memorial service would be best. Just us, and you, you know, those who knew him. Who…who will miss him.”

Considering it for a moment, Enjolras frowned at the wall. In theory that sounded fine, but…He looked impassively at the gun on the desk in front of him. “No,” he said, his voice sharp. “Let’s make it public.”

There was a long pause before Courfeyrac asked cautiously, “Enjolras, are you sure?”

“Yes.” Enjolras’s voice was firm, commanding, in a way it hadn’t been since Grantaire’s death. “Why not put this on display for everyone to see? It’s all just an act anyway, isn’t it?”

Now Courfeyrac sounded truly worried. “Enjolras, what are you talking about? What’s going on?”

Enjolras shook his head, even though Courfeyrac couldn’t see him. “Nothing. Just…make the necessary arrangements, alright? I’m sure whatever you chose will be acceptable.”

“Enjolras…” Courfeyrac hesitated. “Are you sure? You want to do this publicly?”

Closing his eyes, Enjolras nodded again. “Yes. I’m positive. Thanks for everything, Courf.” Hanging up, he looked down at the solid weight of the gun in his hand, already feeling calmer and more focused now that he had a plan.

He was no longer drifting, lost at sea. He had charted a course that would take him to Grantaire.

And it would be his final and finest performance.

* * *

 

It was quiet, just as it had been quiet ever since Enjolras had returned from Paris. This morning, though, he did not despair in the quiet as he would have only days earlier.

Instead, he stood in front of his mirror, deftly tying his tie, standing as straight and tall as if he were dressing for the Oscars and not the memorial service of his husband. Though calm, emotions still rippled below the surface. He would save them, though, until the proper time. Until he stood in front of the crowds of paparazzi and Hollywood celebrities and whomever else Courfeyrac had invited to this farce.

It would be easy, so easy, to slip the gun from where he had tucked it in his waistband and end it here, now. To join Grantaire this instant instead of waiting a moment longer. But Enjolras had always promised to fight for Grantaire, to stand up for him, to be strong for him. And he had failed in all ways possible. To him it was thus a final performance, a final bow to the life that had been Grantaire’s ruin, to the life that had torn them apart, and a final act of contrition for the choices he had made that had been Grantaire’s undoing.

Adjusting his cufflinks, he stood even straighter, looking at himself with a calm if detached eye. He was ready. Or at least as ready as he would ever be.

He crossed to the door of the bedroom, lingering for a moment in the doorway, turning to look at the room. He could picture Grantaire still in bed, covers wrapped around him like a cocoon as he blinked blearily at Enjolras as he headed off for an early call time on set. Enjolras could practically hear Grantaire’s voice, rough with sleep, murmur to him, with the barest hint of a smile, “Leaving so soon?”

Enjolras blinked back tears as he stared at the now eternally empty bed, and as he had done so many times before, he smiled slightly and whispered a promise, “I have to go. I love you. And I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is the last one. Huge thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story so far!


	17. Epilogue - "Goodbye"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of it all. Thanks to everyone who's read! Usual disclaimer. And away we go!

Epilogue – “Goodbye” – _Catch Me If You Can_

“ _A life that’s only on the page_ ”

 

Courfeyrac sighed contentedly and folded the arts and entertainment section of the newspaper, setting it next to his mug of coffee. The headline read, “ENJOLRAS MOREAU BIG WINNER AT OSCARS,” while the secondary headline said, “See photos of Enjolras and other stars on the Red Carpet on page 3.”

Life was going well. Enjolras’s career was on track, Les Amis had more business than it knew what to do with, and Courfeyrac…Well, Courfeyrac looked down at the faded words written in blue ballpoint on the back of his hand, admiring the way the tiny yet flowery print spiraled up to the platinum band on his third finger. Jehan had been taken by inspiration late last night and scribbled on Courfeyrac in lieu of a piece of paper. This was not the first time in their almost two years of marriage that this had happened, but it still made Courf grin like an idiot.

He had never been happier. Jehan could be quiet at times, especially when writing – especially when writing his novel, which was a new thing he had started shortly after meeting Courfeyrac, citing a sudden inspiration – but his novel was now complete, and Courfeyrac had just finished reading it. Of course, Jehan had insisted that it wasn’t a novel, but whatever he had called it – a novella-musical or something of the sort – was too literary for Courfeyrac to pretend to understand—Jehan had waxed poetic about the nature of musicality in transforming prose into almost poetry (to Courfeyrac it sounded like Jehan was just in denial that he had written a novel instead of poetry). But when not busy writing, Jehan surprised Courfeyrac every single day with how absolutely wonderful he was and how perfectly they fit together.

Thus life, overall, was very good for Courfeyrac. Enjolras’s career was going well, and if the blond man was working too much or too hard, well, that was Combeferre’s to deal with, not his. They all privately thought that he should slow down and settle down soon, but this was Enjolras that they were talking about. The man was married to his work, destined, perhaps, to become the next perpetual-Hollywood-bachelor.

He was roused from his reverie as Jehan burst through the coffee shop door and practically ran over to the table in the café where Courfeyrac sat. “Did you finish it?” Jehan asked breathlessly.

Courfeyrac couldn’t stop the stupid, love-sick grin from spreading over his face as he looked at Jehan. “Yes, I finished it,” he said, reaching down to grab the binder-clipped papers from his briefcase and sliding them across the table to Jehan. “Your first novel…musical…whatever. I’m so proud of you, love.”

Jehan’s grin faltered slightly. “Did you…did you like it?” he asked nervously.

“No, I _loved_ it,” Courfeyrac grinned. “Seriously, babe, I can’t even tell you how many times I cried, and you know that I don’t cry at things like this. It was absolute perfection.”

“You mean it?” Jehan asked nervously. “I mean, you’re not just saying that? Because I know I have a lot of work left to do…I mean, I have to change all the names and everything, avoid copyright issues, and, you know, edit in general…”

Courfeyrac grabbed his hand and squeezed it to stop his rambling. “I promise you, it was amazing.” Jehan smiled at him. “Besides,” Courfeyrac added, taking a sip of his coffee, “I wouldn’t worry about changing the names too much. I’m sure Enjolras will sign off on it; this is just the kind of thing he’d love putting his name on, getting awareness out about drug addiction and mental illness and suicide, etcetera. You know Enjy – always one for a good cause.”

“That is true,” said Jehan with a half-smile. “He’ll probably make me edit out the porn, though.”

“Nghmmph,” spluttered Courfeyrac, choking on his coffee. “Porn? What porn? I don’t recall reading any porn in there.”

Jehan rested his fingers lightly on Courfeyrac’s wrist. “It was a joke, love.”

His fingers slid down Courfeyrac’s wrist to lace with Courfeyrac’s and they sat in comfortable silence for a few moments. Courfeyrac looked at Jehan carefully. “This Grantaire,” he started, as if unsure whether to be asking the question. “Is this your friend who…”

“Who killed himself?” Jehan supplied, half-smiling tightly. “Yup. That’d be him. You went to his funeral, which was really wonderful of you, considering it was only, what? Four weeks after we started dating?”

Nodding slowly, Courfeyrac frowned. “What happened?” he asked. “I don’t think you ever told me.”

Jehan looked contemplative. “No, I don’t think I ever did. It was too hard to talk about back when it happened, and then I channeled a lot of it into writing this. But now…”

* * *

* * *

 

Jehan could not sit still, practically buzzing with excitement as he bounced around Grantaire’s apartment. Grantaire was not amused. “Jehan,” he snapped, reaching out to grab Jehan to stop him from moving about. “Stop. Slow down. Repeat whatever it is you just said at a speed that I can actually understand. Also, stop bouncing around; you’re making me sea-sick.”

Jehan grinned widely at him, knowing that his news was going to blow Grantaire’s mind, once it got through the hangover at least. “I. Met. Someone,” he told Grantaire, deliberately slowly.

“And I give a shit why?” Typical Grantaire. So eloquent.

Jehan’s grin grew wider. “Well, for starters, he’s gorgeous. And we’re going out tonight. But that’s not the important part. When we got to chatting, I asked what he did, and he said that he was an agent, like a talent agent, like for actors, like Ari from  _Entourage_ —”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I get the picture, Jehan.”

“Right,” Jehan continued, mentally noting that Grantaire had not made any  _Entourage_  jokes, which meant that he was in a mood. “So I asked if he was the agent for anyone famous and he said he couldn’t tell me so I pouted, which apparently works a lot better in real life than I thought it would, because he kissed me and it was great because he tasted like coffee and chocolate and—”

Grantaire threw a pillow at him. “Would you get to the point already?”

Rolling his eyes, Jehan sat primly on the edge of Grantaire’s bed, his grin turning sly. “The point, mon ami, is that he happens to be the agent of the one and only Enjolras.”

“So?” asked Grantaire, pulling at a loose thread in his sweater.

“So?” squeaked Jehan in outrage, rolling over to look at him, making his eyes as baleful as possible. “So? What do you mean, so? I have single-handedly gotten you close to meeting your Apollo, and all you can say is ‘so’?”

Shrugging, Grantaire said, “I mean, it’s not like you met him or something. You met his agent, who probably doesn’t even see him that often, and—”

“No, no, no,” said Jehan excitedly, cutting Grantaire off, practically bouncing again at the news he was about to give Grantaire. “That’s the best part. See, when I said we’re going out tonight, what I meant was we’re going to this really cool club opening – VIP, mind you – and Enjolras is actually going to be there, and the best part is, you’re coming too.”

This peaked Grantaire’s interest. “Are you serious?” he breathed, looking as if he might swoon.

“As a heart attack,” Jehan said chirpily.

Grantaire reached out and grabbed Jehan’s arm. “Fucking shit, Prouvaire, you couldn’t start the damn conversation with, ‘Hey, you and I are going to meet Enjolras Moreau tonight’?”

Jehan just giggled and bounced out of arm’s reach. “More fun this way.” He stood up abruptly and crossed over to Grantaire’s closet, mentally sorting through the clothes that he hoped Grantaire had clean. “Now we just have to figure out what you’re going to wear…”

“No, absolutely not. You are not dressing me.”

Jehan pouted and gave Grantaire his best puppy-dog eyes. “But they probably have a dress code and I would hate more than anything if we got all the way there and you didn’t even get to go in because you decided ripped jeans and a holey t-shirt was an appropriate thing to wear…”

Groaning, Grantaire gave up and lay back against the bed. “Goddamnit.” Suddenly, he sat bolt upright. “Holy shit, is this actually happening?”

Jehan, busy holding a button-down shirt (brand-new with tags still attached) up to himself, turned to make a snide comment but stopped when he saw the look on Grantaire’s face. “Hey,” he said concernedly, moving to sit next to Grantaire. “Are you ok?”

“I just…this can’t really be happening. Like, real life doesn’t work this way.” Grantaire’s voice was quiet, a little sad, with a hint of desperation and just a glimmer of what could be called hope.

Jehan touched Grantaire’s shoulder gently. “Sometimes it does,” he said quietly.

“Not to me.”

Embracing Grantaire fully, Jehan gently stroked Grantaire’s hair. “Few are my years, and yet I feel/The world was ne’er designed for me.” They stayed that way for a long moment, Jehan trying to pour everything words couldn’t say into his embrace. Then Jehan whispered, “It will be different this time, chéri. Things are looking up for you, I know it. You’ll meet your muse tonight and then you’ll be inspired to paint even more and then you’ll get a show in a gallery and it will be fantastic, and…”

Jehan kept talking, rubbing Grantaire’s back soothingly as Grantaire closed his eyes and rested his head against him. He tried to speak to every insecurity Grantaire had, to try and convinced him, again, that things would turn out right for him.

He had no idea just how wrong he was.

* * *

 

Jehan bounced up and down on the balls of his feet as he waited for Grantaire to come down from his apartment. He was positive that he was flushed pink, but Courfeyrac had greeted him rather exuberantly, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself at the recollection.

Grantaire opened the door, looking nervous, and when he saw that Courfeyrac had rented a limo for them, Jehan thought his eyes might bug out of his head. Jehan couldn’t help but grin at his astonishment. “It’s great, isn’t it?” he said excitedly, giving Grantaire a hug. “Courfeyrac is just the sweetest. C’mon, I want you to meet him.”

Pulling Grantaire over to the limo, Jehan ushered him inside and gestured dramatically at Courfeyrac, who was reclining in one of the seats, drink glass in one hand, cell phone in the other. “Grantaire, this is Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac, this is my best friend, Grantaire.”

Courfeyrac looked up and instantly dropped his phone into his lap. “Grantaire!” he exclaimed, the exuberant grin that Jehan loved so much spreading across his face as he grabbed Grantaire’s hand and shook it. “It’s great to meet you. Jehan’s told me a lot about you/”

Grantaire smiled, his eyes flickering to Jehan. “Uh, nice to meet you. Jehan’s…not told me much to be honest.”

Courfeyrac let out a booming laugh. “Well, we’ll have plenty of time for me to bore you with all the tedious details. Sit down, please, help yourself to a drink if you’d like.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, knowing that was the best thing for Courfeyrac to have said to make Grantaire comfortable, Jehan curled up next to Courfeyrac, trying not to look at him too adoringly. He didn’t pay much attention to what Grantaire and Courfeyrac chatted about, more than content to write odes in his head to the way Courfeyrac’s arm muscles moved under his skin as he gestured expansively while telling stories.

When they arrived at the club, Courfeyrac smiled at Jehan and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together. Then he led Jehan and Courfeyrac into the club, across the dance floor, and to the VIP section. Introductions were made all around to the group of people seated at the table. Jehan felt nervous, meeting all of Courfeyrac’s friends for the first time.

Perhaps if he had been less nervous, he would’ve noticed the growing tension radiating off of Grantaire. In fact, he barely remembered that Grantaire was there until he elbowed Jehan in the ribs, muttering, “I’m gonna go outside and have a smoke.”

The doctor, Joly, looked up. “Smoking’s really bad for you, you know.”

“I know,” said Grantaire with a small grin as he fished his cigarette pack and lighter from his jacket pocket. Jehan watched him walk out of the club, small frown on his face. Then Courfeyrac tugged his arm to pull him into a chair, and Jehan’s attention turned back to the group at the table.

* * *

The anxiety was still pounding in Grantaire’s chest, gripping his heart like a vice. This was a mistake. He shouldn’t have come here tonight. He couldn’t be around this group of cheerful, nice people, because he was anything but cheerful and nice. And besides, Enjolras would probably walk in, take one look at him, and laugh in his face.

At the thought of Enjolras, he peeked back inside for a moment to see if he had arrived. He had not, though Jehan had sat down at the table, holding hands with Courfeyrac. Grantaire leaned his head back against the brick wall and closed his eyes, letting the cigarette smoke curl in lazy spirals from his mouth. He was torn between soul-crushing disappointment and complete relief that the blond god had not appeared yet. Grantaire did not know what he would do when the man did show up, but his best guess was that it would be something stupid. He was better off just leaving.

With a sigh, he stubbed his cigarette out against the brick of the building and shoved his hands in his pockets as he slumped off through the alley.

* * *

Enjolras stepped out of the back door, phone in hand. He had no intention of making any phone calls. Really, he just couldn’t understand why Courfeyrac insisted on dragging him to things like this, knowing full well that Enjolras disliked these kinds of events.

His nose wrinkled at the smell of cigarette smoke that still curled warmly in the air. There was something…almost hauntingly familiar about it. Which was ridiculous – Enjolras didn’t know anyone who smoked. Joly would’ve killed whomever it was.

Sighing heavily, Enjolras closed his eyes for a brief moment. He was exhausted, and coming here tonight had clearly been a mistake, especially if he was hallucinating some kind of connection with the reek of cigarette smoke. He looked down at the phone still clutched in his hand, and sighing again, hastily composed a message to Courf.  

* * *

 

Jehan’s phone buzzed and he looked down at the message and sighed. “ _I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later. R._ ”

Not even thirty seconds later, Enjolras, who had barely sat down, stood and excused himself, saying he needed some air. About a minute after that, Courfeyrac’s phone went off. He pulled it out, holding Jehan steady in his lap with his other hand, and read the text out loud. “I took off. Wanted to get home and get some sleep. Besides, Courf, that’s not really my scene, which you know. See you tomorrow.”

“Enjolras left?” asked Jehan, resting his cheek against Courfeyrac’s. “Grantaire took off, too.”

Courfeyrac smiled wryly. “Such good friends we have, huh?” He turned to press a kiss to Jehan’s temple. “Well, at least we’re here together.”

* * *

 

Jehan called Grantaire’s cell phone the next day, not entirely surprised when he was sent straight to voicemail. “Hey, R. I really wish you had stayed last night. Probably best that you didn’t, though. Enjolras took off within, like, two minutes of getting there. Probably too boring for you. I don’t think you would have had anything in common. Um, I hate to nag, but don’t forget that you have a doctor’s appointment today. You have to go to make sure that you get your prescriptions refilled, alright? And call me, ok? I’m worried about you.”

* * *

     

Three weeks later, Jehan was roused from sleep in the early hours of the morning by an incessant knocking on his apartment door. He stumbled over and answered it, blinking blearily at the uniformed police officer standing outside. “Are you Jean Prouvaire?” the officer asked.

“Yes, I am,” said Jehan cautiously, his brown furrowed. “How can I help you, officer?”

The officer looked at him impassively. “You’re listed as next of kin for Grantaire Durand.”

Jehan’s grip on the door tightened. “Yes, that’s right,” he said, tensing almost subconsciously. “Is there a problem? Has Grantaire been arrested?”

Sighing, the officer shook his head. “No, son, I’m sorry. Grantaire Durand is dead.” The officer continued talking, but Jehan only caught bits and pieces of it as he stared at him, holding the door as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. “Neighbors called 911…Gunshot wound…apparent suicide…”

Realizing that the officer was staring at him as if waiting for an answer, Jehan blinked. “What was that?” he whispered.

“You’re going to need to come down to the precinct tomorrow and sign some forms, determine what you’re going to do with the body, and claim his personal effects.” The officer reached out and gripped Jehan’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

 _I’m sorry for your loss._ Jehan stared after the retreating back of the officer before closing the door mechanically. Those words said so much and nothing at all. In a daze, Jehan made his way back to his bed, feeling numb. With trembling fingers, he picked up his cell phone from his bedside table and dialed Courfeyrac’s number. “Courf?” he whispered in a shaky voice when the other man picked up. “I’m so sorry to wake you up. I just…I need you…”

* * *

 

Courfeyrac had offered to accompany Jehan to the police station, but since Courfeyrac had already caught a cab all the way across the city in the middle of the night to hold Jehan as he shook and sobbed, Jehan told him he didn’t have to. He wanted to do this on his own.

The receptionist pointed him down a hallway to a private interview room and a few moments later, a police officer bustled in. “Mr. Prouvaire?” Jehan stood and shook the officer’s proffered hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Prouvaire.”

“Jehan.” Jehan’s voice was quiet and strained, but he cleared his throat and tried again. “Please call me Jehan.”

The officer looked at him with a mix of pity and scrutiny as he sat across from Jehan. “You were listed on hospital admittance records as Mr. Durand’s next of kin. How did you know him?”

“He is my…” Jehan’s breath caught in his throat as he corrected himself. “He was my best friend.”

“And Mr. Durand didn’t have any family?”

Jehan shook his head. “No. He was in the foster care system for awhile after his mom died.”

The officer nodded and made a note on the sheet in front of him. “And did Mr. Durand have any history of suicidal thoughts or behaviors?”

“He tried to kill himself a few years ago.” Jehan’s voice was hollow. “He went off his meds. I’m assuming that’s probably what happened. He was supposed to refill his medications a few weeks ago and he probably didn’t. I…I did remind him to, but…”

Looking up at him, the officer said gruffly, “It wasn’t your fault, son. There was nothing you could have done.”

Jehan’s hands curled into fists underneath the table. There was _plenty_ he could have done. But he wasn’t about to argue with a police officer over the matter. So instead, he gave him a strangled smile and nodded mutely.

The officer made a few more notations on the paper in front of him. “Alright, everything seems fairly standard. We’re going to release the body to your care. If you can fill out this form, here…”

Jehan’s mind was a thousand miles away as he numbly filled out the form in front of him. Thank God again for Courfeyrac, who had whispered to Jehan as he held him that he didn’t have to worry about a thing for the funeral, that Courfeyrac would take care of it all.

Once Jehan had finished filling out the form, the police officer handed Jehan a bag filled with Grantaire’s personal effects. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “There was a note. Found with the body. I don’t know if you’d like to…?”

“Yeah,” said Jehan, blinking dazedly. “Yeah, I’d like to see it.”

The officer held out a plastic evidence bag, inside of which was a small scrap of paper. Written on it in Grantaire’s rough scrawl were the words, “‘Cause I die without you.”

Watching Jehan’s reaction closely, the ME asked, “Does that mean anything to you?”

Jehan tore his eyes away from the paper. “No. No, it doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Ah,” said the officer, a little sadly. “I was hoping it would give you some closure.”

Shrugging, Jehan took one last look at the paper in the officer’s hand. “I’m not sure how much closure there was to be had. But thank you anyway.”

There was no closure to be had. It was not as if Grantaire’s story had ended; more as if someone had stolen the rest of the manuscript. His life seemed unfinished, waiting for the next chapter that would never come, and Jehan’s heart broke wishing that he could somehow write that next chapter, could somehow have Grantaire back with him, if only to finish his story more completely.

And as Jehan walked away, he mourned for that as much as for the loss of his best friend.

* * *

 

Enjolras adjusted his cufflinks and shifted uncomfortably, staring around the small crowd gathered in Central Park. Courfeyrac was there, hand-in-hand with his boyfriend, Jehan, who Enjolras had only met once before today, but talked to on the phone not even a week ago.

It had been an odd conversation. Courfeyrac had handed him his cell phone and hissed, “It’s Jehan. Be nice.”

Enjolras had thought that was rather rude. He was normally nice, and even though he had only very briefly met Jehan at that absurd club opening, he had thought he seemed nice. Cetainly nothing to be anything less than perfectly nice to him on the phone. “Enjolras?” Jehan had asked, voice a little breathless.

“Yes?” Enjolras replied politely, his voice mildly curious.

“I had an odd favor to ask.”

It took a moment for Enjolras to place what emotion was in Jehan’s voice – the other man was nervous. Enjolras couldn’t help but frown slightly. What kind of favor could this possibly be? “Ask away,” he told him cautiously, careful not to commit to anything that he would come to regret.

Jehan’s voice was hesitant. “I don’t know if Courfeyrac told you, but a friend of mine, my best friend, really…he died. That is, he killed himself. And, um, I don’t know how to go about telling you this without making it weird…He was a huge fan of yours. And I think…no, I _know_ that it would mean a lot if you…if you could maybe come to the memorial for him?”

Enjolras let out a huff of air. He wasn’t sure exactly what he had been expecting, but it certainly had not been that. “Oh, wow. I’m…I’m really sorry, Jehan.”

“Thanks.” Jehan’s voice was small. “So do you think you can come? It’s this Thursday, at 2. I already checked with Courfeyrac to make sure you didn’t have anything going – I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. I would…I would be honored to be there.” Enjolras felt strangely hollow.

Jehan’s voice was full of relief. “Oh good, I’m so very glad. Courfeyrac will fill you in on all the details.”

“I really am sorry for your loss,” Enjolras said quietly.

“I know.” There was silence and then Jehan said softly, “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

Lost for words yet again, Enjolras said quickly, “Well, I’ll give you back to Courf. And I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“Thanks again, Enjolras.”

“Not a problem.” Enjolras was about to hand the phone back to Courfeyrac when he realized. “Oh, Jehan. What was your friend’s name?”

There was just a moment’s pause. “Grantaire. His name was Grantaire.”

Now Enjolras stood, feeling awkward, immensely glad when Jehan came up to him. “Thanks for coming,” said Jehan, smiling tightly as he gave Enjolras a light hug.

Enjolras tried to smile back as best he could. “I’m glad to be here,” he told him, meaning it entirely. “I just wish that there was something that I could have done.”

Jehan’s forehead creased slightly. “You know, I actually believe that you mean that,” he said slowly.

Frowning, Enjolras said, “Of course I mean it. I would have done anything in my power to help in any way that I could.”

Jehan smiled and laid a gentle hand on Enjolras’s arm. “I know. I didn’t mean to question your integrity. It’s just…” He cocked his head slightly. “People like you, people in your position…they don’t often worry or think about those who…aren’t.”

“I wasn’t always in this position myself,” Enjolras reminded Jehan. “I’m no better or really any different from you or anyone else.”

Jehan inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “I know.” He paused and bit his lip before blurting, “I really wish you could have met him. Or, more accurately, that he could have met you.”

Enjolras did not know what to say to that, so settled for giving Jehan a tight smile. “I wish that I could have met him, too.”

Smiling at him again, Jehan was about to say more when someone called to him from across the way. “Excuse me,” he told Enjolras before ducking away.

Enjolras looked around for Courfeyrac and saw him deep in conversation with someone else. Not wanting to disturb him, Enjolras strolled over to look at the flower arrangements that Courfeyrac had said Jehan had done. They were beautiful flowers, but as Enjolras knew little and cared less about such things, he found his attention wandering until his eyes fell on the picture of Grantaire.

He had been handsome, which for some reason surprised Enjolras, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. In the picture, he looked younger than he had been, laughing as the photo was taken. Enjolras felt strangely drawn to him, and knew that if he had seen him across a room, he would’ve wanted to meet him, to talk to him. 

Enjolras stared at the oversized photo of the man, whose face was permanently creased mid-laugh, blue eyes sparkling brightly. He felt a twist in his gut, realizing that this man, so alive in the picture, was now dead and gone. And Jehan had said he had been a big fan of Enjolras’s, which made Enjolras feel absurdly a little guilty. As if he could somehow have stopped this man’s suicide.

He couldn’t have, and he knew that. A celebrity – ignoring the fact that Enjolras hated that term more than just about anything in the world – was no more responsible for his fan’s actions than anyone else. At the same time, the knowledge that he had, even inadvertently, played some kind of role in this young man’s suicide left a twisted knot inside his gut that couldn’t quite be tamped down by the knowledge that there was really nothing he could have been able to do to stop it.

Even more oddly, looking into the eyes of this Grantaire, Enjolras couldn’t help but feel the same strange connection that he had felt a few weeks earlier at that stupid club opening that Courfeyrac had dragged him to. A sense of familiarity – then, of cigarette smoke; now, of laughing blue eyes – as if he had seen these eyes crinkle and crease before, as if he had watched those lips curl into a smile a thousand times or more.

It was beyond absurd, even more so than feeling guilty over his suicide. He had never met this man before, didn’t know him from a stranger on the street. Yet he couldn’t help feeling drawn to him, wondering what he had been like in life, if he would have gotten along with him, if they would have been friends. These thoughts surprised Enjolras; he was not the sentimental type. But there was just something about this man…

Without warning, someone jostled him from behind, and Enjolras stumbled slightly, tearing his eyes away from the picture to glare impressively at whomever had run into him. When he turned back, the moment was gone, and the face frozen forever in time was just that of a laughing stranger.

* * *

* * *

 

Courfeyrac’s grip on Jehan’s hand had grown so tight it was almost painful over the course of the story, and when Jehan finished, he released Jehan’s hand almost sheepishly. “Wow,” he murmured. “I had no idea.”

“I know.” Jehan’s voice was quiet, but peaceful. “It would have been a lot to lay on you after only knowing you for a few weeks.”

“I would have listened, though,” said Courfeyrac quickly. “Or at least I would have tried.”

Jehan smiled at him. “I know you would have. And I love you for that. And for listening now.”

Courfeyrac bit his lip and looked nervously at Jehan. “Um, about the way that I was portrayed in your novel…”

Jehan grinned and leaned in to kiss him. “I needed someone to act as a foil. And I knew you best to figure out how to use you for that purpose.” His smile faltered ever so slightly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I don’t mind…” Courfeyrac said, half-smiling, though his eyes were serious. “I just hope you know that I would never—”

Jehan cut him off by scrambling into his lap and peppering hasty kisses all over Courfeyrac’s face. “Oh, no, baby, I know that. Trust me. I know that.”

Grinning, Courfeyrac kissed Jehan, long and sweet. “I know. I just wanted to make sure.” He pressed a kiss to Jehan’s nose, which made Jehan giggle. “I’ll be the villain in any one of your novels, darling.”

“It’s not a _novel_ ,” Jehan reminded him, sitting back, expression turning introspective. “You’re also not really a villain. That’s part of the tragedy – there is no villain. There’s no one person that blame can rest on. And that’s life, you know? We spend so much time trying to ascribe blame when in reality, we’re all the villains and heroes in our own lives.”

Courfeyrac nodded and bent down to kiss him again. “You’re so eloquent. I love you.” He looked down at the manuscript. “I’m sorry about what happened to Grantaire. In real life. And in the book.”

Half-smiling, Jehan squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand. “It was a long time ago.”

Curious, Courfeyrac asked, “Do you really think he and Enjolras would have…you know?”

“It’s hard to say,” said Jehan thoughtfully. “Grantaire definitely thought Enjolras was hot. And I think in a lot of ways, when he was at his best, anyway, Grantaire would have balanced Enjolras out perfectly. Theirs would have been a volatile relationship, for sure, but I think there would have been a lot there between them. That’s what I thought when I got to know Enjolras, anyway. When he and I first really talked, which wasn’t until after Grantaire’s funeral, now that I think about it, I just couldn’t stop thinking that they could have gone so perfectly together. I mean, we’ll never know, I guess, but…it felt right, if that makes sense.”

“It does.” Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly to the side, looking at Jehan closely. “Is that why you wrote it, then? You met Enjolras and thought he and your Grantaire would have gone well together?”

Jehan looked down at the table. “That was definitely what made me start it. But I guess it stemmed from the fact that I always thought Grantaire should have had a different ending. I mean, he was so young when he died, there was so much he never knew, you know?”

Courfeyrac said nothing, just reached over to pull the poet further into his lap, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. “I know.” There was another long moment when Courfeyrac played with Jehan’s hair, uncharacteristically quiet. Then he asked, in a low voice, “Why not a happy ending?”

“Hmm?”

“If you could give him any ending you wanted, why didn’t you give him a happy ending?”

Jehan chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “It’s hard to explain,” he said slowly, contemplative. Then he said, half under his breath,

“There are no happy endings,  
Endings are the saddest part  
So just give me a happy middle  
And a very happy start.”

“Shel Silverstein,” he said to Courfeyrac’s enquiring look. “Grantaire’s favorite poet. Or at least so he always said. And I don’t know. A happy ending would have felt…disingenuous. There are some people who are simply full of tragedy, and he was one of them. He was always one of them. Even if he got to live longer, to have a different ending, I could not imagine it ending too differently. The ending isn’t really what’s important, after all; what mattered was what he could do with the time I gave him. And I like to think he spent it in the best way possible.”

He looked down at the paper in front of him, trailing his finger gently over the words. “I gave him love, more than most people know in a lifetime, and I don’t pretend that it would have been enough to save him, but…he should have known love.”

Courfeyrac reached out to grab Jehan’s hand and twist it up to his moth so that he could brush a gentle kiss over the poet’s knuckles, looking at Jehan with as much love and tenderness as he possible could. “Believe me, he did.”


End file.
